


Draco Malfoy and the Shadow Walker

by Hondo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, POV Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-14 11:11:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 110,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7168673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hondo/pseuds/Hondo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy and the Shadow Walker is the story of Draco Malfoy's first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  It is a companion piece to Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.  It does not change any of the events of the original story and fits seamlessly into the canonical world of Harry Potter.  This complete book fills in the holes, fleshes out the events, and shows how a new perspective can show events to be simultaneously identical yet wholly different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Invitation

With an unpleasant pain in the pit of his stomach, Draconius Malfoy remembered that it was his birthday. He’d been lying awake in his bed listening to the storm hurl huge raindrops at the windows when he realized that it must be after midnight, meaning that he was turning eleven years old today.

Draco hated birthdays. Not birthdays in general. Just his own.

His parents – especially his father, Lucius Malfoy – simply didn’t ‘believe’ in them.

“Waste of time, particularly a waste of my time,” he would snap.

A gust of wind smacked a willow branch against the glass. Draco stared at the pane, hoping to see a flash of lightning. Maybe he would make a wish if he saw one. Can you wish on lightning? If he could, he would wish that this birthday would at least be better than the last one.

On his last birthday, the Malfoys had had company. A man (who spoke a confusing mix of English and Hungarian) had visited the house and had brought along his twin sons. Draco had quickly been drafted to entertain the boys, and during the course of the afternoon had inadvertently mentioned that it was his birthday. This had immediately led to questions about presents. At first Draco had tried to change the subject, but eventually he had lied and claimed that he’d just gotten a new racing broom but that he couldn’t show it to them because it was going to be delivered later that day.  

Unfortunately Lucius Malfoy overheard everything. It was bad enough that Lucius both pointed out the lie and publicly confirmed that no presents would be forthcoming at all, but after their guests had left he also informed his son that he had just lost the privilege of flying for the next two months for “embarrassing the family.” No, there was no way this birthday could be worse than that.

Feeling thirsty, Draco threw back the covers and walked barefoot to his ensuite, flitting from rug to rug to avoid the cold marble floor. After taking a long drink straight from the tap, he straightened up and examined himself in the mirror.

Looking back at him was a boy with grey eyes, straight whitish-blond hair, and sharp features. Except for the paleness of his hair and his skin, the boy didn’t look much different from any other eleven year old – a little shorter than average perhaps, but otherwise unexceptional. But Draco Malfoy was very different from most children. He, like every other member of his family, could use magic.

A cracking sound echoed around the rooms as Dobby, a gangly house-elf with large furtive eyes, bat-like ears and skinny limbs, suddenly appeared, standing in the middle of the expansive bed.

Dobby peered back and forth, finally spotting Draco who was glaring angrily at the elf from the doorway of the ensuite. “Oh, Master is out of bed.”

“What are you doing here, Dobby? I’ve told you over and over not to come popping in here in the middle of the night.”

The house-elf wrung his hands and quickly apologized. “Oh, Dobby’s so sorry, Master. Dobby didn’t mean to upset the young Malfoy. Dobby just wanted to make sure he was sleeping well.”

“Hoping to stop me from sleeping well is more like it. I bet you’re disappointed to find me already awake,” Draco muttered.

“Oh young Master, I would never want to do anything that would upset you,” retorted Dobby. His green eyes misted up, giving a kind of credibility to his regret, although his sly smirk gave just the opposite impression.

“Well if you don’t want to upset me, then get out of here,” growled Draco.

The elf gave a very formal bow and responded, “Whatever you wish. After all, I don’t want to get in the way of you enjoying your birthday. I’m sure there’ll be lots of presents and games. Why, I bet your mother will even visit, Draconius.”

“I said get out of here.” Draco hated being called by his full name.

The house-elf nodded and disappeared with another loud crack.

Draco shook his head in disappointment. Dobby was about the only one he wished _wouldn’t_ remember his birthday. The elf knew full well that that Draco’s mother wouldn’t be visiting. She hadn’t been here in months. And as for games or presents, there certainly wouldn’t be any of those either.

Dobby, who had been serving the Malfoy family since before Draco had been born, had become a master at following the letter of directions while ignoring the intent. Just a few days ago he’d been asked to wash the sheets on Draco’s bed, which he happily did immediately, not bothering to remove them from the bed first, or even waiting for Draco to get up.

Physically punishing the elf was pointless. An innate protective magic made it virtually impossible for a house-elf to get injured. As a result they had never developed the same sensitivity to pain or extremes of hot and cold that other creatures had. However, Dobby was unusually insensitive, even for a house-elf. This may have just been due to some personal quirk, although the popular theory in the family was that it was the side effect of a collision of spells between a Shield charm Dobby had cast and a rather powerful curse Draco’s grandfather Abraxas had shot at the elf after Dobby had replaced the chair Abraxas was about to sit in with a tub of melted cheese. But whatever the cause, Dobby seemed impervious to physical harm. You could drop a bowling ball on his head and the elf wouldn’t care in the least.

When Draco was very young this had provided some amusement, but hitting Dobby with things seemed mostly to amuse just Dobby these days. The elf loved to ‘punish’ himself for every imagined wrong, usually while shouting sarcastic apologies. What was most embarrassing was that the elf always saved the wildest displays for visitors. If it was up to Draco, he would happily get rid of the all-but-useless ‘servant,’ but Draco’s father felt that it was important to keep him around. Lucius Malfoy claimed the elf was a sign of the family’s status, but maybe it was really because Lucius didn’t want to be the first Malfoy that lost a battle of wills to a troublesome house-elf.

The Malfoys were one of the most respected families in the wizarding community. Part of that respect came from the fact that the Malfoys could trace their family history back as far as wizarding records were kept, and every member of the family had been magical. Their bloodlines had never been tainted by mixing with the non-magical community, not even through marriage. But, even if it had, their wealth and influence would still command respect.

The family lived on a lavish country estate, employed a fair sized staff, and had no shortage of material goods. Draco knew he lived a privileged lifestyle and felt a little bit guilty about resenting his parents for not marking his birthday. The guilt, though, may not have been genuine. It may have merely been a reflex from having heard so many times in his life that self-pity was a sign of weakness.

Draco turned the light off, plunging the room back into darkness. A lightning flash briefly illuminated his reflection again and he told it, “It’s not like they don’t care about you,” before making his way back to bed accompanied by a roll of thunder.

The storm continued to rage outside as the light of the morning slowly grew in strength. Most children would have been driven mad by the tedium of waiting for morning to come, but he enjoyed the feeling of solitude. When it finally seemed late enough he climbed out of bed and pulled on his favourite slippers along with a silk robe which had a slender green dragon embroidered on the back. The dragon blinked its eyes and looked around with a bored expression as Draco headed down to the kitchen.

Draco’s father was already there, sitting in a hard-backed chair at the large table. In his hand was a small glass containing a bright red liquid. Father and son gave each other small, barely perceptible nods in greeting.

Lucius Malfoy was a tall, thin man who, like his son, had bright silvery-blond hair. As usual, he was already dressed in a formal black suit with accompanying cape. He was not fond of casual banter so he didn’t speak a lot to his son except when there was something that needed saying. Unfortunately, it seemed that the things which most often needed saying were Draco’s shortcomings. It was not that Lucius disliked his son; he just had very high expectations and in his opinion Draco had not done a very good job of living up to those expectations.

Draco must have been looking curiously at the glass in his father’s hand because Lucius stated flatly, “It’s for my health,” before draining the contents in one gulp.

Lucius wiped his lips with a white napkin decorated with the Malfoy family crest, and rose to his feet, tossing the now stained cloth on the table.

“I’m going to be out for most of the day, but I will be back before dinner. When I return there is a matter that you and I need to discuss.”

Giving no further explanation, Lucius turned and walked away.

Draco listened to the sound of his father’s echoing steps fading away, wondering what “matter” needed discussing. He hoped he wasn’t in trouble. Finally, he shrugged. It probably wasn’t that important. Last week his father had brought him into the city after announcing that they had some “important business” to do together and Draco had ended up spending the entire day trying on nearly identical shirts at a dozen different stores. He couldn’t imagine that today’s “matter” would be much more exciting.

“Dobby!” Draco yelled. “Dobby, did you make breakfast today?” Draco waited for an answer, already thinking of the leftover salmon from the previous night’s dinner. If Dobby was feeling mischievous, as he seemed to be today, it was usually better just to find something in the kitchen.

Dobby, waiting the precise amount of time it took to be irritating, finally appeared. “Of course young Master. Your father left orders for me to make breakfast for you and your sisters,” he said with a barely perceptible smile. “Although he didn’t ask me to make you a birthday cake. Perhaps that’s where he’s gone – to the bakery to pick one up.”

Draco considered lashing out at the elf when suddenly a large breakfast appeared on the table. It looked surprisingly good with sausages, pancakes covered in syrup, and orange juice. Draco hesitated. Getting breakfast out of Dobby, particularly something actually edible, was never this easy.

“Go on young Master,” urged the house-elf. “Tuck in.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Draco asked, giving Dobby a suspicious look.

Dobby’s grin widened. “There’s nothing wrong with _most_ of it.” With a loud crack the elf disappeared once again, probably back to the attic where he seemed to lurk most of the time.

Nothing wrong with ‘most’ of it? Well, with basically three things, that meant two must be okay. His stomach rumbled and he hoped the pancakes were edible. They looked very good. But Dobby would know that Draco liked pancakes so they would probably be sabotaged. But then Dobby would know that Draco would suspect that, so maybe they wouldn’t be. The more he thought about it, the hungrier he got. Eventually he couldn’t resist any longer. He took a bite of the pancakes. They tasted good, and when nothing strange happened after waiting a short time, he kept eating. Draco was just finishing the pancakes when Dobby reappeared. The elf looked at Draco’s plate and his shoulders slumped.

“I hope Master enjoyed his pancakes,” he grumbled sadly.

“Actually yes, they were excellent.”

“Is Master going to try something else?”

“No, I think I’ll play it safe and skip the others.”

“That’s a shame,” said Dobby, sounding truly disappointed. When he swept away the plate and cup, one sausage slipped off and landed on the floor. As the Malfoy’s servant retreated forlornly towards the back of the kitchen the sausage suddenly sprouted six little legs and scampered after him. Draco silently congratulated himself for picking the pancakes.

With nothing in particular to do, but feeling like he should be doing something on his birthday, Draco began roaming aimlessly around the house. Lucius was a bit of a collector and the Malfoy’s home was filled with an eclectic array of knickknacks, ornaments, and antiques. Some rooms were given over entirely to housing collections on various themes. One was full of stuffed exotic creatures like the poisonous tree butterfly and the carnivorous cave mole. Another chamber was filled with ancient weapons, swords, axes, knives, even a morningstar. None of them were new. The Malfoys only collected used weapons.

One hallway was full of suits of armour and it was down this hallway that Draco found himself wandering. He stopped by a suit that had a small plaque beneath saying the armour once belonged to Horatio Malfoy. As he studied the metal plates, a ghostly spear slowly materialized in the armour’s metal gauntlets. With a swift movement it plunged the spear straight into Draco’s chest.

Draco smiled at the familiar chill as the ghostly spear ran him through and then ran him through again. The same thing happened every time anybody looked at that suit of armour. It was one of those interesting things that Draco liked to show off when he had friends visiting. Not that he had a lot of friends. About the only people his age that he spent any time with were the children of the people who visited his parents. Sometimes, depending on the importance of the visitors, Draco would be summoned to keep them company, like the twins who’d been here on his last birthday. At other times the occasion would be more formal and Draco would be expected to dress in a suit matching his father’s and observe very proper decorum.

Today, though, Draco didn’t really feel like seeing anybody anyway, not even his two little sisters. Other than his mother, Draco’s sisters were probably his favourite people in the world. It was hard to find games they would all like, because they were so much younger than he was, but the three of them still spent a lot of time together. The girls could be heard shouting in the kitchen right now, barking orders at Dobby, who for some reason actually tended to obey when the girls told him to do things. Draco drifted down the corridor away from the noise.

He eventually made his way into the library, an expansive two-tiered room with rows of bookshelves lining the upper level and scattered furnishings below. It was designed to easily seat more than two dozen though it was seldom used. Draco was drawn to the library, not because of the thousands of books there – although some of them were quite interesting – but because of the crystal-ball, larger than an adult’s head, sitting on a low table in the centre of the room.

The ball had been a present for the family from Draco’s mother Narcissa, who had brought it back from one of her many long trips. She told the family it was so they wouldn’t miss her. The crystal-ball showed what Narcissa Malfoy was doing at any one time. Unfortunately, it had limited powers. If Draco’s mother was close, the ball was very accurate. If she was far away, as Draco believed she was now (the last he’d heard she was in Russia), it only picked up very faint images and then simply filled in the rest. If Narcissa was swimming, the ball might sense water and show her walking through a rainstorm. If she was watching someone ride a horse the ball might show _her_ riding it. Right now it showed Narcissa Malfoy with a bundle of sticks and twigs under an arm. With her free arm she grabbed a handful of them, brought them up to her mouth and then took a large bite.

As he watched his mother happily munching away on the wood, Draco told the ball, “Hmmmm, probably not exactly right.”

Still, even though he knew that the ball was making mistakes, he liked to watch the foggy images going through day to day activities. Draco rightly suspected that he was going to spend much of his day doing this.

By the time he heard his father’s voice calling from the front entrance hall it was already mid-afternoon.

“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” said Draco hurrying up to his father and watching Lucius Malfoy pull off a pair of long black boots, still impeccably clean after a day out.

“Yes, well, my business concluded earlier than I expected today.”

Draco wasn’t sure exactly what his father’s business was. Lucius didn’t own a store or have a workplace that he needed to visit, yet he traveled a lot and seemed to be engaged in endless meetings, most of which seemed quite boring.

Obviously unhappy with what he saw, Lucius Malfoy snapped, “What have you been doing all day? You’re still in your robe.” Before Draco could answer, Lucius, his voice dripping with sarcasm, added, “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You’ve been doing nothing other than wandering and daydreaming.”

The elder Malfoy slipped on a pair of black shoes and motioned with his finger that Draco should follow. They plodded down the corridor towards a small office where visitors to the estate were often brought. Inside was a mahogany desk virtually free of any clutter except for a small glass bowl patiently waiting to be filled with candies or cigarette butts or something, though it never was. The walls were covered with paintings of great Malfoys of the past, most of whom seemed to be either asleep right now or looking curiously at the intrusion, although one kept shifting his hat around while studying the results in a hand mirror. Lucius pointed at a small stool in the corner and waited for his son to sit. The elder Malfoy then settled himself slowly into a larger cushioned chair.

“Do you know why the only chair in this room, other than my own, is a poorly constructed and unbalanced stool? After all, most of our home is filled with the finest furniture that money can buy. Why would the owner of such luxuries set a guest on something like that?” he asked briskly.

Draco’s first reaction was to answer, “I don’t know,” but he remembered that his father hated that response. “Never answer a question that way,” Lucius Malfoy would hiss back in anger. “ _Think_ before you speak.” But Draco’s mind was blank, so he guessed feebly, “Because it had to be put somewhere?”

That answer didn’t seem to please his father either. The tall man’s silver eyebrows narrowed and his mouth turned down slightly. “No, that is incorrect. I don’t keep garbage around my house without a purpose. And yet, here it is.”

Lucius leaned himself back in his own comfortable seat. “Think about it. How does the chair make you feel?”

Draco started to get nervous. He tried to think of an intelligent answer but couldn’t think of anything. He knew his father’s patience was like an hourglass, steadily running out. Actually, with his son it was more like a minuteglass so Draco blurted out the only thing that came to mind. “You want the person to feel bad?”

Draco half-expected his father to explode and accuse him of trying to be funny but instead he just nodded. “A bit crudely put but, for a change, you are in essence correct. It is an uncomfortable chair. It makes the person feel unbalanced and sore, eager to conclude their business quickly. What’s more,” Lucius added, kicking the little stool for emphasis, “it puts that person in his place. It lets him know his status compared to me, his host.”

Lucius pulled out a small golden envelope with green writing on it. He balanced it between his index fingers and casually spun the envelope. “These are the sort of life lessons you should be learning. After all, you’re… what? Aren’t you going to be eleven soon? When I was that age, I hung on my father’s every word. I longed to gain his wisdom. You, on the other hand, seem content to simply pass through life waiting for knowledge to be pushed into your head.”

Draco was not sure how he should react to this little speech. Should he nod or should he look insulted? Sometimes it was difficult to guess what his father was looking for. His uncertainty simply led to a long awkward silence, broken only by the buzz of a fly and the creaking of the stool.

Lucius gave an irritated wave, either at the fly or at Draco, and continued. “You will be going off to school at the end of this summer, and as you know, your mother and I have given a great deal of thought as to where exactly you should go. Just out of curiosity, where would you like to go, Draconius?”

The question surprised Draco. It was true that the discussion about what school to send him to had come up quite frequently in the last year but he’d never before been part of the conversation. And from what he’d overheard from those conversations Draco had thought the matter had already been decided. He was quite sure that his parents intended to send him to Eastern Europe to attend a school called Durmstrang.

“Er – Hogwarts, I suppose.”

“Hogwarts? Why there?”

“Well… sir, er… well, it would be closer…” Draco didn’t have to look into his father’s face to know that this hadn’t been the best answer, so he pressed on. “And… and it’s got a fine reputation. And besides, you went there, and mother too, so it can’t be so bad.”

“Well, you are in luck then. Your mother and I have decided to send you to Hogwarts. And you are correct. We did indeed attend school there,” said Lucius Malfoy, the harsh edge to his voice softening. “As I am sure you know, it’s where we met as well. I first set eyes on Narcissa when she was sorted into Slytherin house. I was already in it, of course. I remember cheering and banging my mug on the table along with everyone else when her name was called out, without the slightest idea how important that young girl would become to my life.”

Draco knew what his father meant by ‘house.’ At Hogwarts every student was put into a house, and all the students of the same house would share dormitories, classes, and a common room.

“And I will admit,” continued Lucius with a thin sneer, “that in _those_ days Hogwarts was a fine institution. However, that was before Albus Dumbledore’s time as Headmaster.”

This wasn’t the first time that Lucius Malfoy had complained about Dumbledore. From the many stories he’d heard about the Hogwarts Headmaster, Draco could understand why his father hated the old wizard.

Draco commented, “It is strange that a second-rate wizard like Dumbledore ever became Headmaster,” which seemed strong enough to show that he agreed with his father but hopefully not so bold as to make his father change his mind and decide that Durmstrang was the only logical choice. He really was thrilled to discover that he would be attending school so close to home.

Lucius only gave a mirthless chuckle. “While I too am perplexed as to why anyone would want Dumbledore as Headmaster of an influential school like Hogwarts, I do find myself in the unusual position of having to stand up for him in this case. Albus Dumbledore is a fool, but he isn’t a second-rate wizard.”

Draco’s father had never had a kind word for Dumbledore before, and Draco’s puzzlement at even these faint words of praise must have shown, because Lucius explained, “It is important to honestly assess people, whether they are friends or enemies. Though I have no love for Dumbledore, I will admit that he is one of the most skilled wizards of our time, perhaps even the second most powerful. But being a great wizard doesn’t make him a great Headmaster. After all, just because a duck can fly doesn’t mean it can build a broom.”

There was a pregnant pause in the conversation during which Draco began to sweat ever so slightly, fearing that his father might be having a change of heart. “But you _are_ going to send me to Hogwarts?”

“Yes, yes,” Lucius snapped as if he’d just been interrupted. “ It has already been decided. Even though you’ll be mixing with those with less than pure-blood.”

“They don’t let Muggles into Hogwarts, do they?” Draco’s eyes widened with concern as he began to wonder if maybe he should ask his parents not to send him to Hogwarts after all.

“Muggles? People who can’t do any magic at all? No, even Dumbledore wouldn’t go that far. It is a school of witchcraft and wizardry after all, not a daycare centre. But, he does allow the offspring of Muggles – Mudbloods – to attend. All they have to do is demonstrate even a modicum of magical talent.”

Lucius heaved a weary sigh. “However, despite Dumbledore’s frequent, chillingly foolish, administrative decisions, Hogwarts does have a relatively skilled staff of instructors, so you should still be able to receive a suitable magical education. And in any case, since I am on the Board of Governors, I won’t have to pay any fees.”

“Aren’t we rich enough to afford school fees?”

“Of course we are, but how do you think we got that way?” Lucius rolled his eyes and continued, “So you get to go to Hogwarts after all, and, as you say, stay a little closer to home.”

Draco flushed but said nothing. A moment later his father flipped the golden envelope onto the desk, and with a jerk of his head indicated that his son could pick it up.

Written across the envelope in green ink were the words, “Draco Malfoy in the care of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.” Draco noticed that the envelope had already been opened but he didn’t mind. He slid a small card out and read:

 

 

> HOGWARTS SCHOOL
> 
> _of_ WITCHCRAFT _and_ WIZARDRY
> 
> Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE
> 
> _(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,_
> 
> _Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. Of Wizards)_
> 
>  
> 
> Dear Mr Malfoy,
> 
>       We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
> 
>       Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
> 
> Yours sincerely,
> 
> _Minerva McGonagall_
> 
> _Deputy Headmistress_

 

As soon as Draco was done reading, Lucius pulled his wand out from a narrow pocket on the inside of his robe. Reaching across the table, he offered the wand to Draco and said simply, “Do something with it.”

“What?”

“Anything, just wave it around. Let us see what happens.”

Draco took the proffered wand and waved it a few times. Initially nothing happened, but eventually a small stream of red bubbles emerged from the tip.

Lucius looked unimpressed as the bubbles floated lazily downward. “Since you are a Malfoy there was never any doubt that you would be a wizard, but simply being one is not enough. Wizarding is a skill that requires a very precise education and a great deal of practice.” Lucius leaned closer to his son and spoke more softly. “It is unlikely that you will ever be one the greatest wizards of our time, Draconius. I would be happy to be proven wrong in this assessment, but the truth of the matter is that you seem to have the weakest natural ability of anyone in the family. But that can not be an excuse. I still expect you to study hard and maximize your skills in the magical arts. I want you to become as great a wizard as you can.”

Draco dropped his head a little. Not wanting to meet his father’s eye he watched one of the red bubbles bouncing along the floor and absent-mindedly stepped on it.

Draco had received his beginner wand when he was just learning to walk, and had been encouraged to practice magic whenever possible, but he never managed anything particularly amazing. His proudest moment had been causing Dobby to fly into a wall once, but he hadn’t ever managed to repeat the trick. His sisters, on the other hand, seemed to be naturally powerful, especially when they were together. Their ability to hurl things around, change colours, and make things appear out of thin air was so strong that the Malfoy parents didn’t dare give them wands yet.

“During school breaks I will provide you with an education in more practical arts, like the arts of persuasion and politics. Never forget my lessons, Draco. Some children get so excited when they learn their first little magic tricks that they forget about everything else. They spend their lives like simpering morons, amusing themselves making flashy sparklers or red bubbles, with no greater ambition in life than to try to find a new flavour of candy. I don’t want you to be one of those people. Malfoys are known for great things. We’ve always been leaders in the wizarding world. And, as I said, you may never be _the_ greatest wizard, Draco,” Lucius looked hard into his son’s eyes, “but I still expect you to be great. You have certain skills and abilities; that is simply the way it is. There will always be someone who is a better wizard, a better flyer, a better chess player than you. But that doesn’t make them better than a Malfoy. You can rise higher than anyone if you choose to. It is simply a matter of learning to use everything - information, friendship, debt - whatever it takes - to gain a position of influence and control over the rabble. That is what a Malfoy does.”


	2. Harry Potter and the Ill-Fitting Robes

Over a month after Draco learned that he would be going to Hogwarts, he found himself following his father down a wood paneled hallway of their house, keeping a half-pace behind so that Lucius couldn’t see how nervous he was. His father was of the opinion that Malfoys should always carry themselves with supreme self-confidence.

Father and son climbed a winding iron stairway up to the third-floor. Smokeless torches, stuck permanently on dusty bronze holders, lit the way. They passed through more and more rarely used archways and corridors before finally finding themselves in front of a large oak door encased in metal brackets.

Lucius touched the door with his wand and spoke clearly, “Coregidor.”

A faint bluish glow passed from the wand and spread out across the wood. Draco heard a faint clicking sound and the door moved slightly.

“That takes care of the magical lock. Now just one more thing,” muttered Lucius. He glanced down the hallway to make sure they hadn’t been followed, then drew a small shiny object out of his pocket. He pushed the object into a hole in the door that Draco hadn’t noticed before, and turned it. There was another click.

“I know, it seems like a Muggle-ish thing to do, using a metal key, but I had it installed in case those little witches, your sisters, managed to magically open this door – just for their own safety.”

Lucius gave the door a light push and it swung open. What lay beyond initially seemed quite bright compared to the gloomy hallways of the manor house. When his eyes adjusted, Draco saw that the portal opened onto a dark narrow alley cobbled with black stones. The Malfoys stepped through and the door swung closed. Draco looked back and saw only a stone wall with no sign of the doorway he’d just stepped through.

“Nice, isn’t it? I just had it installed. It cost a small fortune, but is worth it I think. Much more dignified than traveling by the Floo Network.”

Draco, now standing on the rough-hewn blocks of stone that cobbled Knockturn Alley, nodded his agreement. The Floo Network was one the most common ways that wizards traveled, especially those too young or unskilled to simply apparate themselves from one place to another (the way that Dobby did with irritating regularity). It involved stepping in and out of fireplaces. It was both disorientating and usually resulted in the traveler getting covered with an unpleasantly large amount of soot.

To their left the narrow alleyway twisted and turned. Despite the fact that the sun was high in the sky, it was gloomily shadowed by tall buildings and dark awnings. Only a couple of stooped figures shambled along, keeping their eyes focused on the ground. To the right the drab structures soon gave way to a bright open square where the pedestrian traffic seemed much heavier and more boisterous.

Lucius pulled out a small piece of parchment and passed it to Draco. “Now I have some business to attend to, as do you. This is the list of school supplies you need to purchase; it came with your acceptance letter to Hogwarts. Make sure you get everything on the list because this will be your only opportunity to do so.”

Lucius reached into another corner of his black robe and pulled out a brown bag with a silver handle. It clinked as he passed it over to Draco, who knew it must be full of coins, the Galleons, Sickles and Knuts that could only be used in wizard shops.

“There is more than enough in there to cover your needs. Go to Diagon Alley,” Lucius nodded his head towards the square with the crowds of people passing through, “and you should be able to find everything on your list of supplies. Don’t forget how to get back to this spot. I’ll meet you here at five o’clock sharp.” Lucius turned and headed into the darker recesses of Knockturn Alley.

Draco was used to being left alone by his father, especially when ‘business’ was pressing, but he wasn’t used to it happening on a strange street. He knew, as he listened to his father’s retreating footsteps, that pleading for Lucius to stay was pointless. Obviously his father either thought that he could handle things himself, or that it would be character building to try.

Flipping the brown bag of coins over his shoulder, Draco made his way into the square, brightly lit by the midday sun. In the centre of the square was a fountain containing a statue of a mermaid spraying water out in a steady arching jet. Often, when a passerby came too close, the statue would turn and playfully squirt them. Draco watched for a while, surprised at how cheerfully almost everyone reacted to getting soaked.

When he tired of watching the mermaid he strolled slowly up and down the street, taking in the noise, sounds, and smells as he explored every nook and cranny. There were dozens of stores selling almost anything Draco could imagine. Some were serious and unadorned, with only a plain sign out front indicating that here was a place where you might purchase “Telescopes” or “Stationary Supplies.” Many, however, seemed to be engaged in a serious competition with the others to draw the maximum attention to their shop. Huge flashing multicoloured signs competed for space with flapping banners and posters of excited people waving at passersby to come into the stores. Ye Olde Toy Shoppe even had a non-stop display of mini-fireworks exploding over its front entrance.

The flashiness and exuberance contrasted sharply with the serious and sombre character of the Malfoy Estate and the wizarding world that Draco was used to. Even the colours seemed impossibly bright. Draco half expected somebody to yell, “What do you think you’re doing? You don’t belong here!” and chase him off, which would have been a shame because it was impossible not to be drawn in by the bright cacophony of Diagon Alley.

The jostling wizards and witches were even more intriguing than the storefront displays. A teenage boy showed his friends a magic mirror that made people look like goblins. An elderly women rattled by, pulling a cart that advertised live bats for only five Sickles each. A father tried to suppress a smile while his wife sighed at their daughter, “Penelope Clearwater! If you eat one more handful of Pop In Your Stomach Popcorn you are going to make yourself sick.”

A display of racing brooms had the desired affect of drawing the attention of every young person in the area. Draco looked longingly at the shiny new brooms, regretfully remembering what his father had told him a few days prior – that first-years at Hogwarts weren’t allowed to bring brooms.

A clock, sounding out the hour with something akin to a blast from a tuba, reminded Draco that he couldn’t spend the whole day sightseeing. Heaving a sigh, he pulled out his shopping list, scanned it once more, and began walking. Moments later he saw a wide wooden sign swinging lightly in the breeze telling potential customers that this was Madam Malkin’s Robes for all Occasions. Draco made his way across the busy alley and into the store which turned out to be dark, cool and – predictably – full of robes.

A tired-looking woman whose hooked nose and rounded eyes gave her the appearance of an oversized parrot looked up from a Witch’s Weekly magazine she’d been flipping through and asked, “School?”

“I beg your pardon?” said Draco, not quite knowing what she meant.

The squat woman answered, “Are you buying robes for school?”

“Oh,” answered Draco. “Yes.”

“Well?” she sighed impatiently.

“Er, well what?” asked Draco quizzically.

“Well… what… school?” the woman said, speaking each word slowly as if stringing them together might confuse him. It appeared that she had had a busy day, although there were currently no other customers in the store.

“Oh, sorry. Hogwarts,” said Draco.

“No problem at all,” said Madam Malkin a bit more cheerfully. “One of my assistants can help you. Just head to the back. ANGIE! We’ve got a new Hogwarts boy here. There you go lad, she’ll fix you right up.”

Draco crossed the room which was filled with outfits of every colour and shape. The sign outside said robes for ‘every’ occasion. It was hard to imagine an occasion that called for a pink robe with a fuzzy green bunny tail attached, yet there it was.

Draco was met by a dark-haired girl who looked to be only a few years older than he was. She ushered him onto a stool and started measuring his arms and legs without saying a word. She left just as silently, returning moments later with a handful of black robes, each embroidered with a crest featuring a golden ‘H’ – presumably standing for ‘Hogwarts’ – on it.

Draco slipped the first robe over his head and Angie began to pin up the hem. As she worked, another boy entered the shop. He looked about the same age as Draco but had dark hair and wore large round glasses. As he talked to Madam Malkin, his hand moved nervously through his hair, revealing a lightning shaped scar on his forehead. In a flash, Madam Malkin didn’t look tired anymore. She was talking with ingratiating smile and leading the new boy back to the same section Draco was standing in.

“I’ll take care of you myself,” said Madam Malkin to the black-haired boy. “Wait here and I’ll fetch some robes and a measuring tape.”

Moments later Angie whispered, “I think we’ll need something a little smaller,” handed Draco the bundle of robes, and followed Madam Malkin into the back room.

Draco stood holding the pile of robes, feeling both nervous and awkward, while the new boy slumped just a few feet away feigning interest in the surrounding displays. Draco knew he should be polite and introduce himself, especially if it turned out this boy was getting robes for school as well.

He waited a little longer, hoping the boy would speak first, but when it became obvious that wasn’t going to happen he said tentatively, “Hello. Hogwarts too?”

The boy glanced over for only for a fleeting second and answered, “Yes.”

A long silence followed. Draco looked over his handful of robes. They all seemed to be much too large.

More time passed while Angie and Madam Malkin continued to shuffle around in the back. A foolish thought suddenly popped into Draco’s head – that the other Hogwarts boy must be wondering where Draco’s parents were. Of course, if he hadn’t been so nervous, Draco would have noticed the obvious fact that this boy’s parents weren’t around either, but instead, trying to cover up his embarrassment about being abandoned to shop on his own, Draco lied.

“My father’s next door buying my books and mother’s up the street looking at wands. Later I’m going to drag them off to look at racing brooms.”

The boy looked over, proving that Draco had at least managed to get his attention. Madam Malkin was just emerging, carrying a single robe and no measuring tape. Not wanting to lose his momentum, Draco joked, “I don’t see why first-years can’t have their own brooms. I think I’ll bully father into getting me one.” Then he added in a conspiratorial whisper with a broad grin, “And I’ll smuggle it in somehow.”

But the boy didn’t seem amused, nor did he seemed inclined to say any more than the single word he’d uttered so far. Draco tossed another ill-fitting robe aside as Madam Malkin, helping the boy put on the Hogwarts robe, said, “I’ve got quite an eye for this sort of thing after all my years in the business. I’ve a hunch this robe will do nicely.”

Draco peered around her and asked politely, “Have you got your own broom?”

“No,” the boy answered glumly.

Draco was not foolish. He knew that his attempt to be friendly was not going well, but he was almost too embarrassed to give up now. He just kept talking in hopes he could find something that would pique the boy’s interest.

“Play Quidditch at all?”

“No.”

“I do.” Then he enlarged on his lie about doting parents. “Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree.” But since the boy’s face was now covered by the robe Madam Malkin was dressing him in, Draco couldn’t tell if he was even listening.

When the boy’s face reappeared Draco fired another question. “Know what house you’ll be in yet?”

“No.”

Did this boy know any other words?

Draco continued to carry on the one-sided conversation. “Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they? But I know I’ll be in Slytherin. All our family have been – imagine being in…” For a few panicky seconds Draco couldn’t remember the names of any of the other houses. He didn’t want the boy to think he was ignorant about Hogwarts. Luckily one came to mind, “… Hufflepuff. I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”

“Mmmm,” said the boy, seemingly much more interested in his robe than anything Draco was saying.

A noisy banging drew their attention to the window, where a giant of a man with a wild beard and even wilder hair was hammering on the glass.

“I say, look at that man!” Draco automatically spouted out, immediately wishing he could have though of something more clever to say.

“That’s Hagrid.”

The name rang a bell, “Oh, I’ve heard of him. Isn’t he… doesn’t he… well, he’s a sort of servant, isn’t he?”

“He’s the gamekeeper,” answered the boy with a sneer, clearly trying to show that he knew a lot more about Hogwarts than Draco did.

The term ‘gamekeeper’ set off a bell in Draco’s mind. A few months ago Lucius Malfoy had come back from an emergency meeting of the Hogwarts Board of Governors. It had been called over Hagrid’s latest misdeeds, including how – amongst other things – he’d almost burnt the Hogwarts Castle down. It had seemed quite funny at the time though the elder Malfoy hadn’t seemed too amused.

Draco grinned, “I heard he’s sort of a savage, lives in a hut in the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic and ends up setting fire to his bed.”

“I think he’s brilliant,” came the cold response.

“Do you?” Draco looked out at Hagrid, who was busy stuffing an ice-cream cone into his mouth while waving a second one at the window, and wondered if the boy was joking.

Since he had finished trying on his pile of robes, all of which were too large, Draco just waited and watched Madam Malkin fussing over the other boy, plucking imaginary pieces of dust off his robes.

Hagrid continued to shuffle about outside the store, occasionally glancing in. Draco put the clues together and realized that Hagrid must be taking care of the boy, meaning that either Hagrid was this boy’s father, which didn’t seem very likely considering how different they looked, or that he wasn’t being accompanied by his parents either. Even though he was liking this boy less and less, at least they had that in common.

“Why is he with you? Where are your parents…”

Before Draco could add, “My dad wouldn’t come with me either,” the boy snapped, “They’re dead.”

“Oh! Sorry,” said Draco hurriedly.

A very awkward silence fell upon the room. Madam Malkin suddenly seemed to be very concerned with something on the floor. Draco decided that anything would be better than the silence so he tried another question, “But they, er… were… our kind? Weren’t they?”

“They were a witch and wizard, if that’s what you mean.”

Draco, who’d always been taught that almost all pure-blood wizards felt the same about wizards who weren’t pure-blood, immediately parroted his father’s line. “I really don’t think they should let the other sort in, do you? They’re just not the same, they’ve never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families. What’s your surname, anyway?”

But it was Madam Malkin who spoke next, “That’s you done, my dear,” she said pulling the robe off the strange boy. “I’ll just wrap this up for you.”

The boy never answered Draco at all. He just walked away following Madam Malkin.

Draco felt his face flush.

“That could have gone better,” he mumbled to himself.

It took him another twenty minutes before he finally got some robes close enough to his size to be acceptable. Feeling pressed for time, Draco hurried off to hunt for more school supplies. But whatever pressure he felt from the clock was soon forgotten as the next shop he entered was Ollivanders, a business that advertised itself as, “Makers of Fine Wands.”

It wasn’t a large store, nor was it particularly well maintained. Small boxes, some a bit crumpled and coated with dust, were stacked along the walls. A white-haired man with eyes as pale as any Malfoy’s was crouched over a low table where he was engaged in putting wands into empty boxes. He stopped as Draco entered the shop. “Ahhhhh, unless I am much mistaken, here is a new young wizard come to choose a wand before embarking for school.”

Mr Ollivander’s pale eyes darted between his customer and the dozen as yet unpackaged wands, “We might as well begin here. Perhaps it’s a sign that I hadn’t had a chance to put these ones away. What is your name, lad?”

Draco’s eyes too fell on the wands scattered on the table. “Draco Malfoy.”

“Oh, yes, I should have guessed. The son of Lucius and Narcissa, I believe. They are an interesting pair, both with wands of elm containing dragon heartstring cores and only an inch difference between the two. I wonder if the pattern will continue. Please,” Mr Ollivander waved his hand over the wands, welcoming Draco to take his pick.

The darkest wood in the pile caught his eye and as he plucked it from amongst the others, he felt a light spark, noticeable but not painful, while Mr Ollivander whispered in the background, “Ebony, thirteen and a quarter inches.” Draco gave a flick and startled himself when the remaining wands tumbled along the table as if a strong breeze had blown through the room.

Mr Ollivander, who didn’t seem as nearly impressed as Draco was by this, suggested that he “Try another one” anyway. Draco reached down and pulled a very short and thin wand from amongst the pile.

“Ash, just eight inches.”

This time, wherever he waved it, the wand left a silvery glow in the air for a moment or two.

Mr Ollivander looked rather excited. “Interesting, very interesting. Are there any others here that catch your eye?”

Every wand in the pile looked as good as any other. Draco was about to pick one up at random but then hesitated. Pushing the rest aside, he picked one from the very bottom of the pile.

“Hawthorn, ten inches.”

This time Draco did nothing with the wand. He simply held it, but even so, he could feel the power that it radiated. He’d never felt anything like this with his practice wand.

Mr Ollivander seemed to sense the same thing. “I believe we have found a match. Unusual, but certainly not unheard of.”

“What is?” asked Draco admiring his wand while barely listening.

“All three wands you tried had the same core – a single unicorn hair. As I say, it is unusual for a wand core to play such a role in choosing the wizard, though it does happen. And typically the unicorn hair wands seem inclined to choose young witches rather than wizards, although obviously the reverse does happen.”

Draco didn’t care. His mind was filled with thoughts of the spells he would soon be casting. As he imagined himself soaring through the air or turning the boy from the robe shop into a frog he whispered, hoping it would be quiet enough that only the wand would hear, “We’re going to make history together. One day, you’ll be the most famous wand in the world.”

 

*

 

Although the rest of the afternoon was a busy rush of purchasing pewter cauldrons, school books, potion ingredients, and other items from the school list, nothing else felt as satisfying as getting his wand. He was still carrying it proudly in one hand, with the rest of his supplies slung in baskets over his back, when he turned back down Knockturn Alley at precisely five o’clock.

For most young wizards this would have been a difficult thing to do as Knockturn Alley looked even more sinister as the shadows of the evening stretched out, but for Draco Malfoy it was almost a relief. Diagon Alley had been interesting, even exciting, but Draco had never really managed to shake the feeling that he was an intruder amongst the bright shops and laughing families. Knockturn Alley may be drab and foreboding, but it also felt familiar and reassuring – as if the wizarding world had gone back to being the way it was supposed to be. When an unkempt hag, the look of whom would have caused most eleven year olds to flee in panic, called after him to give her any spare Knuts, Draco barely noticed. Instead he continued on his way, keeping an eye out for his father, and thinking about how much he’d like to get off his feet after a long and exhausting day.

 

*

 

That evening Draco sat on the floor of Malfoy Manor flipping through _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_. He waved his wand, mouthing the words of some of the spells. For the most part they seemed to be pretty mild incantations. The first few pages included descriptions of how to make your wand glow blue, how to magically water a plant, and how to make a whistling sound. The spells near the back of the book looked a lot more interesting, but there were a lot of words on those pages that Draco didn’t understand.

“I trust you found everything on your list?” Lucius’ voice startled Draco who quickly put his wand away as if he’d just been caught doing something very naughty.

“Your list?” repeated Lucius.

“Oh yes sir, I think so. I didn’t really know what some of those potion ingredients were but the man at the apothecaries seemed to know exactly what I needed.”

“Good, good,” nodded Lucius.

“Everything went really well actually,” Draco announced, feeling suitably impressed with himself for getting through the day without help. “The only hitch was that it was a bit hard to get service at the robe shop.”

“Really?” said Lucius with a slight snarl forming at the edge of his lips.

“Er, yeah,” said Draco thinking it was not a very big deal.

Lucius leaned back a bit and thought for a few moments and his snarl faded slightly. “At Madam Malkin’s? Well, I imagine she may not have known who you were.” He tapped his fingers together lightly. “Still, you should never let yourself be treated as second class.”

Draco felt his face redden.

“One trait that people admire above all others is confidence. Remember who you are, Draco. You can do magic; that puts you above the Muggles. You are a pure-blood, and that put you above other wizards. You are a Malfoy, which puts you above the other wizarding families; and you are a man, which puts you above women like Madam Malkin.”

Lucius waited a few moments then added with a conspiratorial wink, “You might not want to mention that last bit to your mother or sisters. But the point is that in the natural order, you and I are on top. We must act that way. We must let the world know it. If we let ourselves be treated as second class, we become second class.”

It had been a tiring day and Draco didn’t feel like being drawn into a long lecture so he decided to change the subject. “I met another boy who will be going to Hogwarts, although I didn’t really get to know him. He didn’t say much.”

“Really? And who was that?” asked Lucius without much interest.

“He never told me his name. He had big round glasses and a strange scar on his forehead.”

“Tell me more about the scar,” said Lucius, suddenly very interested.

“It was jagged a bit like a lightning bolt.”

Lucius fell back into his armchair and stroked his chin in thought. “So it _is_ true. He is all grown up and going to Hogwarts after all.”

“Who’s all grown up?”

“Harry Potter. And it would appear that he is going to be a classmate of yours, Draconius.”

“ _The_ Harry Potter?”

“Indeed.”

Like every young wizard and witch, Draco had heard the story of Harry Potter, the boy who’d become famous when he was still a baby. But considering that they were going to go to school together, and perhaps even share the same house and dormitory, Draco didn’t mind it at all when Lucius began to retell the story.

“It was a decade ago, perhaps even more now. A day can take so long, but the years do fly by don’t they? The Dark Lord was finally bringing some order and good sense to the wizarding community,” Lucius said nostalgically. “Not that everyone was happy about it. There are always some grumblers and troublemakers such as the Potters.”

“What happened?” asked Draco, knowing the answer but not wanting his father to stop.

“One night there was a chance meeting between the Dark Lord and the Potters. Words were exchanged and it led to a fight. A fight that turned rather ugly. Much of the house was destroyed. Both the Potters died. The Dark Lord simply seemed to vanish off the face of the earth. No one is entirely sure what happened to him because out of it all the only survivor was the child, Harry Potter, bearing the scar you noticed but otherwise unscathed. The most popular belief is that one of the Dark Lord’s own spells somehow… failed – failed rather spectacularly it would seem – and the Dark Lord was destroyed by his own magic.”

Lucius lapsed into quiet thought, tapping his lips with a finger while his eyes gazed forward, unfocused. His finger stopped moving and he stated, while still staring at the wall, “Try to befriend him if you can.”

Draco was so surprised he practically squeaked, “Who? Harry Potter?” He’d heard his father praise the Dark Lord many times so it seemed very strange that Lucius would ask him to befriend the son of enemies of the Dark Lord.

“Is something the matter?”

“Well, didn’t you just say his parents were troublemakers?

“He is not his parents. I don’t know what he is like. In fact no one does; he has been quite thoroughly kept out of the public eye.” Lucius looked intently at Draco. “Is this going to be a problem, Draconius?”

Draco, remembering how things had gone in the robe shop, didn’t think it very likely that they would become friends. He knew better than to say so, however, so he swallowed and said, “I’ll do my best, Sir.”


	3. A Dragon’s Place

Draco sat sprawled across a soft low-backed blue sofa idly waving his wand. Since his trip to Diagon Alley he’d taken to carrying his wand everywhere and often found himself doing just what he was doing now, imagining himself casting spells. Spotting a ripped seam in the far arm of the sofa, Draco passed his wand in front of it, muttered some gibberish, and pictured the rip disappearing. He was imagining his father praising him for this clever demonstration of magic when a flash of movement from outside caught his eye and drew his attention away.

A tall, slender man with thinning red hair shuffled nervously about forty paces from the front door, making no effort to approach the house. He was being watched curiously by one of the many white peacocks that roamed the grounds of the Malfoy estate as it too shuffled in the dust under the hot sun of an August day. On the man’s other side was a tall hedge beyond which stood Trimble Slater, a stooped old wizard who had been working as the Malfoy family’s gardener for over half a century. Trimble guided a steady stream of water from his wand towards the roots of the hedge, although occasionally some splashed through, spattering the thin man’s robes. He responded with a kind of nervous agitation as if he were caught between two great dangers, though neither the spray of water nor the peacock were particularly formidable.

“My apologies again for the intrusion, Lucius,” said a serious looking witch, whose black ponytail bound with a cheerfully bright red hair tie seemed oddly out of place given her stony demeanour. She stood chatting with Lucius Malfoy in the hallway next to the sitting room where Draco sat safely ensconced. Draco wasn’t sure if his father was unaware of his presence or if Lucius just didn’t care if Draco overheard the conversation, but either way he happily listened in.

“This must be most inconvenient for you.”

“Tempest, Tempest,” came the silky reply. “There is really no need for you to apologize. Obviously I bear _you_ no grudge. Indeed, if anything, I should be thanking you. After all, it was most kind of you to let me know in advance that you were coming. It gave the cleaning staff time to make the house a bit more presentable.”

“No one in the office really thought it was necessary. No one except…”

“Weasley.” Lucius Malfoy finished the witch’s sentence while casting an angry gaze at the wizard standing in the drive outside. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. He received yet another ‘anonymous’ tip about me. I honestly don’t know if he just enjoys harassing me or if he really hopes to find something. Maybe he thinks that’ll lead to a promotion or a bonus of some sort; then maybe he can finally afford to buy clothes for all those red-haired brats of his. Maybe I should just give him a few Galleons and he’ll finally leave me be.”

Tempest nodded agreement, not noticing the sarcasm. “Of course, normally no one would take him seriously. It’s just that everyone at the Ministry is jumpy after what happened at Gringott’s Bank and all.”

“Oh really? That isn’t what this is all about, is it? Does that blood-traitor Weasley think that I stole the Philosopher’s Stone? That he’s going to find it here?”

“No, no, nothing like that at all. The stone wasn’t even stolen! The theft was just a rumour. There was a break-in, but Dumbledore had already moved the stone to the school. It’s just that when something like this happens the Ministry gets into a bit of an uproar. It’s like shaking a bee’s nest really. It doesn’t mean anything is getting done but it sure looks busy. Ahh, here come the boys now.”

Two men, whose worn and unkempt Ministry of Magic robes didn’t quite give off the sense of authority for which they were intended, shuffled down the Malfoy’s hallway, both carrying wands in one hand and Secrecy Sensors in the other.

“It’s just like you expected, Miss Adams. Nothins here, right? Nothins that shouldn’t be in any case.”

“Do you wan’ us to keep lookin’ then?”

“No,” Tempest Adams shook her head. “I think we’ve wasted enough of Mr Malfoy’s time as it is. Grab your kits. I’ll go break the news to Weasley.”

Lucius Malfoy, his face wearing a smug expression, watched the witch walk down the drive to where the red-headed wizard was cleaning water droplets off his glasses. He stuffed them back on and listened to the news with an increasingly irritated expression.

The remaining two wizards nodded their good-byes. “Sorry to have bothered you, sir.”

“Ahhh, but surely you’ll need some refreshments before you go?”

“Oh that’s quite all right, sir. I thinks those pastries you gave us earlier wuz more than enough.”

“Oh, but on a hot day like this, you’ll need something to drink. Please be my guest,” Lucius pulled two bottles of elf-made wine from the folds of his robe.

“Sir, that’s very generous of you.”

“Right generous guvnor,” agreed the second wizard. “Elf-made wine. That musta cost a few Galleons, that did.”

“But, it looks like we’re just on our way, sir. Doesn’t look like we’ll have time to share a glass.”

“No matter,” waved Lucius Malfoy airily. “Take them with you. You can enjoy a drink a little later then. Small compensation really for having been dragged all the way down here, wasting your day when I’m sure there are many more important things you’d rather be doing.”

“Well, we’re not really supposed to accept gifts or nothin’. . .” one of the wizards reached out and took the offered bottle anyway, “so mum’s the word, sir.”

“Of course, of course,” Lucius smiled.

“Thank you very much, sir. You’re a right good gentleman you are. Most people are just plain angry with us when they get they house-searched.”

“I don’t see why. You’re just doing your job.”

“That’s what I always say guvnor.”

“That’s right, it is. That’s what he always says.”

With a final smile at the two wizards, a nod to Tempest and a scowl for Arthur Weasley, Lucius closed his front door.

 

*

 

Time has an interesting way of speeding up when you are trying to hold on to it, and as much as Draco was looking forward to going to Hogwarts, he was also frightened at the prospect of summer coming to an end. He’d never been away from home for more than a few weeks at a time, and certainly never without at least one of his parents. The idea of living somewhere else in a castle full of strangers sounded like a great adventure in mid-July when the departure still seemed far in the future, but now, in mid-August, it loomed. Draco was glad that his sisters were sitting on the floor of his room, distracting him from worrying about what lay ahead.

Both girls had bright blonde hair, like everyone else in the family. The oldest one, at eight, wore small multi-coloured glasses and had a head full of wild curls that were constantly getting tangled. The youngest, who was only four, had straight hair and, unlike anyone else Draco was related to, tended to insist on pink clothes. Both were routinely watched over by their nanny, Miss Mave, an elderly black-haired hag, who was currently peering at them from the doorway, silent as always.

“What are you doing?” asked Draco’s youngest sister, Shade.

“He’s doing what he’s been doing all week and all last week,” said Ember. “He’s staring at the wall.”

“I’m not really staring. I’m thinking and stuff.”

“What are you thinking?” asked Shade innocently.

“I don’t know really. It’s kind of hard to explain. Just thinking.”

“And staring.”

“Mom sent you an owl.”

“Really?” Draco leapt to his feet, his eyes like saucers. “Is it in the aviary?”

“Probably,” said Ember.

Draco dashed for the door.

“Wait! Give us a ride,” yelled Shade.

“Yah,” said Ember. “Give us a ride.”

Suddenly Draco’s chest felt constricted, as if invisible ropes had been thrown around him and were being pulled together by a giant. He didn’t panic, though it was hard to breathe, because he knew exactly what was happening. His sisters had been doing this little bit of magic to him almost non-stop over the last couple of months. As he continued to force his way towards the door, his progress now greatly slowed, Ember and Shade dragged along the smooth floor in his wake, whooping with pleasure.

Wondering how they’d learned this spell in the first place, let alone how they managed to cast it without wands, Draco grumbled, “Let me go. I want to see what Mom said.”

“We told you, you have to give us a ride first,” his sisters giggled.

Draco grunted as he pulled the two girls the length of his bedroom and out into the hall. When he was a few steps outside of his door, he said, “Okay that’s it for you.” He turned and picked up Shade and plopped her back on the bedroom floor and closed the door. As soon as the sisters were separated the spell collapsed and the invisible binds dropped off Draco. For some reason, the girls always had trouble keeping their spells going when they were apart.

“Hey no fair! Let Shade out,” laughed Ember as she scrambled back to open the door. Draco knew he only had a few seconds so he dashed down the corridor as fast as he could and turned a corner in the nick of time. He ran out the front door, down the white marble steps and along the stone path that led to the Malfoy’s aviary. Dozens of birds, most of them owls, were sitting around on the branches of the trees inside. Draco immediately saw an eagle owl with a note and a brownish bundle attached to its leg. The owl noticed Draco at the same time, flew down to one of the small hatchways, and extended its leg out so that Draco could remove the delivery. He immediately plopped down on the grass and ripped it open, causing a fold of purple paper covered with elegant writing to spill out, along with a neatly wrapped package. Draco eagerly snatched up the letter and read:

> _Dear Draco,_
> 
> _Hello my son. I can’t believe how time has flown by.  It seems like only yesterday when you were a little baby in my arms and now you’re all grown up and heading off to school.  I’m sorry I won’t be there to see you off but I promise that when I come back from here (I’m in Lithuania while I’m writing, you’ll have to look it up on a map sometime) I’ll visit you at school and we can catch up.  Meanwhile I’ve sent you two presents that will help make your time at Hogwarts a little more pleasant.  First is this owl.  I haven’t given him a name yet.  I thought you could pick one.  I know we’ve got lots at home already but I thought you should have a young and strong owl in case you wanted to send me letters and I was far away.  The second present is in the little package that came with this letter.  It’s a rather clever toy I bought off of a Latvian witch.  I suggest that you don’t show it to your father.  I don’t think he’d approve.  In fact, I’d recommend that you don’t even open it until you get to Hogwarts._
> 
> _Write to me once you get settled and tell me all about school._
> 
> _Love,_  
>  _Your Mother,_  
>  _Narcissa Malfoy_

The owl had brown feathers on top, a white chest, and a patchwork of tan colours over the rest of its body. It stared with an intelligent expression in its orange tinted eyes.

“What should I call you?”

Initially Draco thought that he should pick an impressive and strong name like ‘Storm’ or ‘Titan.’ Then he thought it might be funny to pick a name that sounded weak and puny. ‘Pipsqueak,’ ‘Ladybug,’ and ‘Fluffysnitch’ all popped into his head. None of them seemed very good though.

“Do you have a name already?”

The owl stared at Draco.

“What is it? Flutter? Sandy? Baron Bottomdrawers?”

The owl picked at something on it’s wing with its beak.

“Pepper? Tasmin?”

Suddenly the owl gave a deep “oooo” sound.

“Tasmin,” said Draco. “Is that your name?”

Another “ooooo” settled the matter.

Draco reached up and stroked the tawny feathers. “Do you think we’ll like it at Hogwarts? I’m glad someone will be coming with me.”

“Ooooo”

“Do you think I should open up my other present from Mother? I’d like to but I’d hate for Father to confiscate it before I ever left. I guess I’ll hold on to it for now.” Draco slid the small box into his pocket.

It was difficult to avoid opening the parcel and Draco’s mind was drawn back to it time and time again, at least until a second going-away present – this one from his father – pushed it out of his mind.

It was just past ten o’clock on another hot sunny day when Draco walked down towards the back gardens where his father had asked him to meet. He was carrying his Cleansweep Junior, its blue shaft etched with gold lettering that announced it as “A Young Wizard’s First Broom.” Draco had owned the broom as long as he could remember and was quite fond of it, though the Cleansweep Junior did have irritating ‘protect your toddler’ magic that limited its maximum speed and elevation. Worse still was the spell that made it automatically turn around and return to its starting point if the rider ever went too far from where they kicked off.

As Draco approached the garden he noticed that Lucius was holding two brooms. His heart began hammering as a wild thought crept into his mind, a thought that proved accurate when Lucius held out a black-handled broom and said, “You won’t need that child’s broom. After all, you aren’t a child anymore. I think you are ready for something a little more advanced, like this Comet Two Sixty.”

A mixture of sheer joy at the sight of the new broom and a pang of guilt over how he’d been resenting his parents for neglecting his birthday the previous month swept over Draco. He dropped the Cleansweep Junior, which hovered riderless, and enthusiastically grabbed the shiny black broom. Then father and son, their black cloaks flapping, kicked off. They flew slowly at first, around the gardens and over the house. Draco could see the large estate with its grounds, cluttered with leafy trees, stretching out in all directions.

“Try to keep up,” Lucius laughed, a sound Draco was not overly familiar with.

Though he felt a bit unbalanced on the new broom, the younger Malfoy beamed and pushed his speed as best he could.

“Follow me to Netterturn Lake,” yelled Lucius Malfoy as he banked to the right.

“But hasn’t the Ministry of Magic said that we can’t leave our own lands with the brooms?” Draco yelled back over the sound of rushing wind.

“Yes, yes they have,” answered Lucius, accelerating towards a row of low hills in the distance.

They skimmed over the tops of the trees, their feet occasionally clipping off bright green leaves. At one point, they spotted a helicopter churning in the distance so Father and son dropped below the canopy and followed an old trail underneath the branches for a time. It was unlikely that anyone in the helicopter had seen them, but they waited for it to fly away before rising above the forest once more. For the rest of their flight they encountered nothing else (except for a few cows, none of whom seemed particularly interested in a couple of passing wizards) until they arrived at the lake.

Netterturn Lake wasn’t really much more than a oversized pond surrounded by a rocky shoreline. It was high in the hills. From here one could see most of Wiltshire, but despite the view it was far enough away from any settlements that it wasn’t visited by people very often, although the remains of old campfires could be seen here and there. Lucius Malfoy, surveying the chill lake, used his wand to pick up a stone and skip it across the water.

“Could you teach me to do that?” asked Draco hopefully.

“I could, but there are far more important things to teach you and time is growing short.”

Lucius looked Draco up and down as if sizing up his son. Then taking a deep breath and speaking in a loud clear voice, as if delivering a speech to a large audience, Lucius said, “There is a natural order in this world. There is grass and there are sheep, there are crows and there are dragons, there are Muggles and there are wizards. A sheep will walk on the grass; a sheep will eat the grass. A sheep does not care what the grass thinks or how the grass feels. The sheep lives for the sheep. Likewise, if a crow is flying in the sky or roosting on a tree and a dragon wants to use that space, the dragon doesn’t worry about the crow’s feelings. The dragon doesn’t find another place to rest. The dragon is stronger, faster, smarter and in every way superior to the crow. It is the natural order of things that the inferior animal makes way for the greater one. Likewise, Draco, Muggles are beneath us. They may look like us but they are inferior. Wizards have the right and duty to worry about the wizarding world. To us, Muggles are like the crow to the dragon, or the grass to the sheep; they are almost nothing to us.”

A splash of a jumping fish sent ripples across the lake.

“I hate Muggles,” Draco announced, prompting his father to ruffle Draco’s hair affectionately.

“Understandably, but I will tell you this. I don’t hate Muggles any more than the sheep hates the grass. Muggles are Muggles and they can’t help it. What I hate is when we wizards bend over backwards to stay out of the Muggles’ way. I mean really, there are literally billions of Muggles out there and every day there are more. And what do we do about it? We hide in our little corners of the world and do everything we can to make sure they don’t see us. We could do whatever we want with this world; this world is ours. Yet the leaders of the wizarding world tell us that we must leave Muggles alone, we must hide from them, we must spend almost all of our time trying to make sure they don’t even know we are here. We are like a dragon hiding from a crow. But it’s not the Muggles’ fault that we do this. It is the misguided ideas of our fellow wizards.”

Lucius began to sound angrier, “And then if a Muggle’s child shows even a hint of magical ability we are told to rush out and embrace these Mudbloods, to welcome them into our community. People like Dumbledore think wizards are wizards no matter what their blood. But mark my words, every fool of a wizard, every wizard who does nothing with his life, has some Muggle in him.”

“And that’s not all,” Lucius’ voice rose even higher as if he was trying to drown out somebody arguing with him. “The Ministry of Magic and wizards like Albus Dumbledore don’t even want us to use half our powers.”

“Which half?”

“Oh, the ‘dark’ half of course,” answered Lucius sarcastically. “Do you know what the ‘Dark Arts’ are, Draconius?”

“Well of course. Lots of people talk about them.”

“And why do you suppose people call them that?”

“I don’t know,” said Draco automatically. Then noticing an unhappy look on his father’s face he added, “Because they are evil?”

Lucius let out a snort of derision, “No, your answer is entirely incorrect. Oh well, I suppose I should not be overly disappointed. After all, you are only ten years old. And besides, I should take some responsibility. I have obviously been lax in your education.”

“Eleven.”

“What?”

“I’m eleven now, actually.”

“Really? Well in any case, The Dark Arts are a nickname given to anything that scares some wizards. It may scare them because they fear what may happen if somebody uses a certain spell or item on them, but it is usually something that scares them simply because they can’t do it. They see a wizard cast a paralyzing spell, so they try to cast one. When they fail they call it a ‘Dark Art’ and make a clamour demanding that that particular spell be banned and never used again.”

Lucius watched the impact of his words on Draco and continued. “There is nothing that makes one spell ‘Dark’ and another spell ‘Light.’ All spells are the same. They are all just means to an end. Each spell we know gives us another choice, gives us more power, yet there are wizards – the same wizards who call for us to protect Muggles and mix with them – who do all they can to stop us from using certain spells, or from studying certain subjects. Yet they can’t see the hypocrisy of their ideas. It is perfectly legal to cast a spell that causes a fellow wizard to dance along like a puppet on a string, yet casting a very similar controlling spell can land you in the wizard prison of Azkaban. What makes one spell Dark and another not?”

“Because somebody called it that?” answered Draco tentatively.

“Exactly,” gushed Lucius enthusiastically as if he suddenly found himself the right audience. “Exactly. And so the Ministry of Magic wastes much of their time trying to constantly expand the number of things we wizards simply can’t do. And ever since Dumbledore took over at Hogwarts he has totally supported the idea of not teaching – or even letting students study – the so-called Dark Arts, almost pretending they don’t exist. The only class they offer on the subject is Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

“And that’s why so many people didn’t like the Dark Lord?”

“Yes it is. They were weak. They didn’t want change. They were like frightened little puppies. They were so terrified they wouldn’t even us his real name. His real name,” the voice of Lucius Malfoy suddenly sank to a whisper, “was Lord Voldemort.”

Lucius swallowed and gave a nervous chuckle and went on, his voice strong again. “But his enemies preferred to give him nicknames. They called him ‘You-Know-Who’ or ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’ out of some silly superstition that saying his name might cause bad luck or something, which just goes to show you how foolish most wizards are.”

Draco ran his fingers along his broom’s handle while the sun slowly dipped below the treeline. Lucius began to walk along the edge of the lake, seemingly enjoying a quiet twilight stroll. Draco sensed that he should follow and trailed along behind his father. Suddenly Lucius turned his pale blue eyes on Draco and said, “From what I’ve said, you must be thinking that I am a pretty poor father.”

Without thinking Draco automatically responded, “No not at all. ”

“Hmmm, yes, well thank you for that vote of support, but if you were truly thinking about it you would. We had a choice of sending you to Durmstrang or to Hogwarts. At Durmstrang you wouldn’t have to mix with Mudbloods. At Durmstrang you would have a much broader magical education. You would be allowed to study the so-called Dark Arts. Yet I’ve chosen to send you to Hogwarts. The only reasons I’ve given in favour of Hogwarts are that it will make visiting easier and that it will save me money. From your perspective those are not very good reasons. If I were you I would be thinking, ‘Why should I settle for a second rate education just to save my father a few Galleons?’ ”

“No, I wasn’t thinking that,” said Draco defensively.

Lucius, sounding more tired than displeased, answered, “Well you should be. You should always question things unless you are being treated the way a Malfoy deserves.”

Lucius began to walk again as he explained. “If my only concern was to make sure that you received the best possible education in the way that I most approve of, I would send you to Durmstrang, but there is one other major advantage in sending you to Hogwarts. It is a very old and very highly regarded school. Many people consider it to be the best in the world. Whether it is or isn’t the best is of little importance. The school’s reputation is enough to ensure that most parents of children with great potential try to send their children to Hogwarts. As a result, the best, the brightest, the most famous – they inevitably end up there.”

“And you want me to be part of that group.”

“Yes, I do. You will be getting to know the pre-eminent wizards of the future. You can get to know what they are like and what weaknesses they have. You can learn how to control them so that when they become leaders, _you_ will be leading them. That is why we want you to go to Hogwarts.” Lucius sighed, and a slightly guilty expression crossed his face. “Though, I must confess, the fact that your mother, despite her frequent wanderings, doesn’t want you to go to school too far from home had to be taken into account as well.”

 

*

 

They arrived back at the estate just as the light of the long summer day had almost completely faded. Both Malfoys were famished and Draco was glad that Lucius volunteered to go and try to cajole Dobby into serving dinner.

Draco returned to his room and laid his sleek new broom on his bed. He admired the lines, while hearing occasional shouts from Dobby and his father in the background. After the noise had died down he changed into dinner clothes, washed up, and made his way to the dining room. It was a gloomy room lit by only a handful of tapered black candles. The room was decorated in heavy dark wooden furnishings, most of which had matching maroon coverings. A long table underneath an unlit crystal chandelier was already set. While Lucius draped his napkin across his lap at the head of the table, Draco took his place on the far end, fully twenty feet away. There was a roast pork, baked potatoes, green beans and a brownish soup.

Draco noticed the lack of other table settings and Lucius quickly explained, “Apparently your sisters have already eaten.”

“How do they get Dobby to serve them?” asked Draco.

“I honestly don’t know,” answered Lucius, causing both men to smile.

Draco watched his father try a spoonful of soup and wince with disgust. Lucius tapped the bowl with his wand and the brown sludge swirled away and magically drained out of the bowl, making a sound not unlike a toilet as it did so.

It had actually been a pretty good day. One of the better ones that Draco could remember spending with his father.

“I won’t disappoint you. At school I mean. I’ll work hard. You’ll be proud of me.”

“That is good, Draconius. I’m glad to hear it.”


	4. The Hogwarts Express

August continued to be particularly hot. It was stifling on the last day of the month, the day before Draco was due to catch the Hogwarts Express, the train that would carry him to his new school. Even the flies seemed to be tired, preferring to be swatted than bothering to fly away. It was cooler in the house, and Draco spent his final afternoon wandering around thinking about all the things he wouldn’t be seeing again, at least not until Christmas. Except for when he thought about getting away from Dobby, it gave him an unpleasant feeling. He wasn’t sure exactly how he would describe it. Perhaps he was scared, which was odd because he had never been the type of child who was easily frightened. He’d never been bothered by the violent paintings lining the walls of Malfoy Manor, or by the odd magical objects that Lucius Malfoy seemed to delight in collecting, such as Horatio Malfoy’s armour or the goblin skull in the atrium that whispered aloud the secrets of whoever was touching it. Lucius said that other people’s fear was due to stupidity, and that those with less brain power (especially common with those of mixed-blood, apparently) were easily unnerved. He claimed that Muggles were so simple that they were even frightened of ghosts.

Yet, if Draco had to pick words to describe how he felt, he would say he was a bit scared, and a little bit sad as well. Oddly, the thing that worried him most was the prospect of being with hundreds of strange children. Not just children who came to your house and to whom you had to be polite because their parents were doing business with yours, and who may never come back again, but children who stayed with you all day, every day. Draco wondered how they would respond to him. Would they like him? Would they bully him? How would Lucius react to find out that his son hadn’t quickly become a leader at Hogwarts and had, instead, become an outcast?

As Draco’s mind wandered, imagining what Hogwarts would be like, his feet carried him around the house. Eventually, as he knew he would, he found his way to the library and sat down staring at the crystal ball showing his mother sleeping. He wished he could bring this ball with him but he knew his father would never allow it, not because Lucius cherished it, but because he wouldn’t want Draco to “waste” his time as he did at home.

Before he knew it, it was already late afternoon. There were so many “last things” that Draco meant to do but suddenly found there wasn’t time for. He never got his final broom flight around the estate, a final game of Hide and Destroy with his sisters, or even a final walk through the hedge maze. He wondered if he would forget the pattern by Christmas break. All he did have time for was a chore that he’d been trying – and failing – to do all month: pack.

His room was a mess of the clothes, books, toys, drawings and collected odds and ends that came from having had the same bedroom for eleven years. The only progress he’d actually made so far was to divide his belongings into two piles: one pile of things that were staying at home and the other bound for Hogwarts. Unfortunately every time he looked at the piles he would decide to knock them down and start over.

“You’ll be coming home for Christmas, right?” asked Ember who was lying flat on her back in the middle of his room picking at the edge of a plush crimson rug.

“Of course I will, but…”

“And we’ve got owls.”

“I know, but…”

“We can always send you stuff if you forget something.”

“I know but…”

“But what?”

“Did you say butt?” said Shade with a big smile.

“Yeah, we both said butt,” said Draco which made Shade laugh out loud while she too flopped around on the floor of the bedroom. Draco’s gaze fell on his sister’s forehead where there was a small white patch, paler than the surrounding skin. It was a birthmark that Shade called her “moonstone.” It didn’t look anything like Harry Potter’s scar but it made Draco think about him anyway. Was Potter also sitting beside two piles wondering what to pack? Was every Hogwarts student doing the same?

“Yes, I’ll be back at Christmas, but… oh I don’t know! It just seems like such a long time and every time I look at something and think how long it is going to be before I see it again I don’t want to leave it behind.”

“Are you still packing?” Lucius Malfoy snapped incredulously from the doorway.

“Hi Daddy,” Shade yelled cheerily, still lying on her back, now amusing herself by balancing the bottoms of her feet against the bottoms of Ember’s feet.

“No better than Aklion,” Lucius sighed.

“Who?” Draco and Ember asked simultaneously.

“Never mind,” Lucius grumbled as he crossed the room and flopped an old, small, but impressive-looking dark leather suitcase on the bed. “Maybe this will help.”

“What’s this?” asked Draco.

“I thought that would be obvious,” answered his father, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“I know what it is,” stammered Draco. “I… er… just wondered what it’s for. Is it for me, I mean?”

“Do you know of anyone else in the house who is busy packing?”

“No, but… it’s a bit small, don’t you think?”

“Try it out. See what you can fit in,” answered Lucius, his forehead wrinkling as he looked at the scattered belongings that made it appear as if the bedroom had either been hit by an explosion or a small tornado.

Draco opened the suitcase and tossed a couple of shirts in. They seemed to sink right through. He could still see them but they appeared to be much farther away. Draco lifted the suitcase up and looked underneath to see if they’d just magically fallen through, but they hadn’t. As more items – a ball, a lamp, a shoe – were thrown in, each seemed to sink deep into the luggage, always leaving just as much room as before.

“This is great!” he said.

“Pick it up,” advised Lucius with a sly grin.

Draco snapped it closed and lifted. “Wow it’s light! Where did you get this?”

“That was my bag when I went to Hogwarts. In those days you had to carry your own luggage to your dormitory. I remember I was still clutching this case on my lap when I was sorted.”

“What does ‘sorted’ mean?” asked Ember while straightening her legs and pushing Shade a few inches across the floor.

“Sorted into houses. The children who go to Hogwarts are divided into four groups called houses. Each house lives together, eats together, takes classes together and competes against the others. Slytherin house is where the clever students go. Gryffindor is where they send the impulsive and foolhardy. Ravenclaw is for the timid bookish types who don’t really do a lot, and then there is Hufflepuff. That is where they send the students who let people walk all over them.”

“Father was in Slytherin. That’s where I’ll be as well,” interjected Draco, hoping it would be true.

“While I’m glad you are enjoying your new luggage,” said Lucius as he watched more and more things disappearing into the suitcase, “I must caution you to maintain your vigilance and bring only what is necessary. The dormitories at Hogwarts are shared and you will find yourself with much less space than you are used to, so while your piles may fit in your luggage, they may not fit in your bedroom.”

“But I could always keep things in the suitcase until I need them.”

“A nice thought, but I’m afraid there is a drawback. If something remains inside this suitcase for too long it tends to disappear.”

“How long is too long?”

“About a day and a half, although sometimes things can remain a little longer or a little less. It is impossible to say for sure. The wise thing to do would be to not leave anything in there for more than twenty-four hours.”

“Where do the things go when they disappear?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. If you ever find out, let me know. There are a few things I wouldn’t mind getting back. Once when I was at school I locked a friend of mine in it. I hoped he would be able to go to wherever things go and then bring them back. Unfortunately a teacher made me release him before he disappeared.”

Draco chuckled politely, even though he wasn’t sure if his father was joking. He pulled a few items back out of the suitcase then picked up his new Comet Two Sixty. He tested it, pushing the broom in from various angles while continuing to be amused that it never seemed to poke out of the bottom and into the bed. “Are you sure I can’t bring my broom?”

“I am on the school’s Board of Governors, so I suppose I should be somewhat familiar with the school rules.”

“Well, why can’t I bring it?”

“First-years are only supposed to be just learning how to ride and so none are permitted their own personal broom.”

“But that’s not fair! I already know how to fly.”

“Be that as it may…” Draco’s father trailed off.

“Don’t they play Quidditch there?” asked Draco in a concerned tone.

Quidditch was a wizard’s game which was played on broomsticks, and although Draco had only played mock games with visitors, he was hoping to finally play a real game now that he was going to Hogwarts.

“I could be on a team,” said Ember.

“I could too,” said Shade.

“You don’t even know what Quidditch is,” said Ember, using her finger as an imaginary broom and flying it around her sister’s head.

Lucius, ignoring his daughters, answered Draco’s question. “Oh yes, they play Quidditch, but it is extremely unusual to allow first-years to play on the house teams. You’ll only practice in Flying class and then you’ll use the school brooms.”

“Why don’t they let first-years on the Quidditch teams? We’re the smallest, so we’re bound to be the fastest. You’d think the teams would be filled with first-years.”

“Partly because players need to have a great deal of control over their brooms, which few people so young have. But it’s mainly because of the amount of damage a Bludger can do against someone that small. I’m no expert on Quidditch history but, if I remember rightly, house teams used to allow first-years to play, especially as Seekers where – you are correct – teams typically do want a light and fast player. But there used to be so many horrific injuries that the practice was stopped a long time ago. There is no school rule against it, but for the sake of safety there is an informal practice of ensuring students are at least in second-year before they are put on a team. You may see it as a punishment, but putting someone so young in that situation would be very disrespectful.”

Draco plopped down on his bed holding his broom and sulked for a few moments. “I think I’ll bring it anyway,” he muttered.

“Ahhh, the rebellious youth,” murmured Lucius.

“You took us flying out of bounds, and that is against the law, not just against some dumb school rule.”

An angry glint flared in Lucius’ eyes. “But I am me and you are you. Until you are older and have developed a good sense of when you can break rules and get away with it, I suggest you just follow them.”

 

*

 

The next morning Draco got dressed in strange and uncomfortable clothes, which his father said were necessary for going through the Muggle areas of London. He said goodbye to his sisters with a sickly anxious feeling like he would never see them again.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he said to Ember. “I left my Cleansweep Junior on your bed. You can keep it.”

“Do I get one too?” demanded Shade.

“No, you can have one when you’re older,” answered a smiling Draco.

“But I’m three years old now,” pleaded Shade, holding up three fingers.

“Actually you are four, but you’re still going to have to wait a bit longer,” said Draco, giving his sisters a final squeeze.

Draco gave a brief nod to the nanny, Miss Mave, who silently nodded back, and turned to join his father. Together they marched through the house (Draco clutching his leather suitcase extra tightly in hopes that would help him fight back the tears that were threatening to get out), until they were once again facing the doorway that magically connected their home to Knockturn Alley.

Draco had no idea how they would then get to King’s Cross Station where he had to catch the Hogwarts Express at 11:00, but once through the portal, Lucius moved confidently, leading his son along the narrow alley, around a corner, and straight toward a blank wall. The elder Malfoy then pulled out his wand and tapped the wall three times. The bricks slid aside, revealing a short path and the entrance to a small pub fronted by a weather-beaten sign that welcomed visitors to The Leaky Cauldron.

“We might as well breakfast here because once we leave we’ll be out in the Muggle world. The fare may be less than appealing but it is bound to be better than Dobby’s cooking anyway.”

“Do we have time?” asked Draco as they pushed through the door, a small bell announcing their entrance, and walked into the gloomily lit building.

“Certainly,” answered Lucius, dusting off a wooden chair before seating himself at an ancient and slightly wobbly table. The handful of other patrons barely registered the Malfoys’ arrival before turning back to their own conversations.

They studied the menu painted on the wall at the far end of the room. “Maybe I spoke too soon about Dobby’s cooking,” Lucius muttered.

A grubby bald man, steadily making a glass dirtier by wiping it with a greasy rag, came over to the table, introduced himself as Tom, and asked them what they would like to eat.

Lucius ordered for them both. “Two House Specials. I’m sure that must be good.” Sarcasm oozed out of every word.

Tom plopped the glass on their table, slung the rag over his shoulder, and made his way back to the kitchen.

“Stand up for what you believe in,” Draco said.

“What? Where did you learn that rubbish?”

Draco pointed over his father’s shoulder. “Stand up for what you believe in. I’m just reading the poster on the wall behind you.”

Lucius turned around and looked at the poster which had a green-robed wizard with a black goatee and raised eyebrows pointing at the words written over his head while nodding sagely.

“Well, I suppose that is the sort of suitably idiotic advice that appeals to most of our fellow wizards,” grumbled Lucius, now running his finger along the top of the table.

“Shouldn’t you stand up for what you believe in?”

“If it’s convenient, then yes of course,” answered Lucius, now checking how much dust had accumulated on his fingertip. “But the world is always changing – new rules, new leaders – and often there is very little you can do about it. A smart man, a Malfoy, will recognize the situation for what it is and find a way to rise to the top of it, not make himself miserable fighting for some noble idea.”

Plates containing toast, runny eggs, and some squarish pink lumps that may have been some kind of meat came flying slowly across the room and settled on their table.

Lucius and Draco lapsed into silence as they worked their way through their breakfast, both trying to show the meal the disdain it deserved. But when it was done, Draco said with a small smile, “Actually I’d have to say, it was better than Dobby’s.”

“Sadly, I must agree,” said Lucius with a sigh.

As Lucius was settling up the bill Draco saw another father and son make their way through the pub and out into the street. They were both dressed in orange shirts and orange pants and were carrying two large suitcases each. When Lucius and Draco exited out of the same door they found themselves in the heart of London. Cars whizzed by and the sidewalks were full of jostling people, half of whom were toting black umbrellas to protect themselves from a light drizzle.

Draco didn’t feel too shocked by the transformation; he’d traveled through the Muggle world before. Since the Ministry of Magic forbade the use of magic around Muggles, wizards – especially those with children too young to apparate – often had to go from place to place traveling amongst the Muggles.

The two orange-clad people stood on the curb. The older one fruitlessly yelled, “I say, transport vehicle! Come here!” at the passing traffic.

Lucius glanced up and murmured, “Ahhh, perfect timing.”

Moments later a small black car bearing the word “Taxi” pulled up.

“Are you Malfoy?” the driver barked through an open window.

“Indeed,” said Lucius, climbing into the back seat, followed by Draco.

The orange-clad wizard squinted into the taxi, looking a little confused as they pulled away.

“How did you know this car would be here?” asked Draco.

“Well, I telephoned the company and arranged it,” answered Lucius matter of factly.

“Telephoned?” asked Draco.

“It’s a Muggle device,” said Lucius casually.

“Muggle?” asked the driver.

Lucius just gave him a cold stare until he said, “Sorry, none of my business, Sir.”

“Indeed it is not,” growled Lucius.

Draco watched the streets of London pass by for a few minutes and then asked, “Why do you know so much about the Muggle world, Father?”

The driver took a quick glance back but didn’t say anything.

Neither did Lucius, so Draco added, “That seems a little odd considering, well, you know, about what you’ve said about Muggles before.”

Lucius nodded, taking Draco’s meaning, and answered, “Yes, well a doctor may not like sickness but he still has to know a lot about it if he wants to be a doctor. In my business it pays to know a lot about Muggles.”

Draco was suddenly tempted to ask the question that had been on his mind a lot over the last couple of years – namely what exactly his father’s business was. But before he could, Lucius continued in a quiet voice, “Not like that fool Arthur Weasley at the Ministry of Magic. Supposed to be an expert on Muggles but can’t understand the first thing about them. What’s more, he’s constantly trying to make laws which stop people from using Muggle artifacts when everyone knows he brings half of what he finds home to play with. Hypocrite.”

“He’s the one who arranged for our house to be searched, isn’t he?” Draco asked, already knowing the answer to the question.

“Yes, he is. Which reminds me, I should warn you that his son Ron is going to be a classmate of yours at Hogwarts. Actually I think Weasley has a number of his urchins there.”

The taxi pulled up to King’s Cross Station and slowed to a stop as a horn blared from the flow of traffic they’d just left. A stranger was already climbing into the taxi, asking if it was free, as the Malfoys climbed out.

Draco grabbed his suitcase and let his eyes wander over the buildings. The view was an eclectic mix of old and new. A shiny coffee shop squatted next to a large church that looked like it had been there for hundreds of years. In shop windows lights buzzed out messages even though it was the middle of the day. And everywhere there were people swarming this way and that.

Lucius, pulling out a couple of colourful pieces of paper and passing them to the driver, noticed Draco’s darting gaze and muttered, “Try not to be too impressed with these Muggles. Even ants can create an elaborate structure if they keep at it long enough.”

“Thanks,” came a yell from the taxi as it lurched back into the street.

Father and son made their way into King’s Cross Station. It was a large building full of bustling crowds, confusing stairways, and colourful booths selling everything from tickets to shirts. Signs pointed to the King’s Cross Underground or the King’s Cross train platforms. Draco was very glad that his father hadn’t left him to fend for himself here; the station was baffling. Luckily Lucius seemed to know exactly where to go. No one showed them much interest as they walked amongst the Muggles but Draco again caught sight of another wizarding family fumbling through the station. Their mixture of robes, brightly coloured clothes, and obvious confusion made them stick out of the crowd as much as if they had been screaming. Dozens of people turned to look at the family as it blundered along. Lucius noticed too and just shook his head in disgust.

Eventually the Malfoys made their way to the train platforms. The tracks, along with a pair of sleek looking trains, were inside the building. Draco was glancing around wondering where the Hogwarts Express might be when his father directed him over to a solid looking wall.

“We go through here,” said Lucius quietly.

Draco didn’t question, he just followed quickly as his father walked straight at the wall. In seconds they passed through and found themselves on a platform very different than the Muggles’ station. It was spacious, with far fewer people, all obviously from wizarding families. Most were standing near a bright scarlet train puffing a thick mixture of smoke and steam into the sky.

The platform was filled with a jumbled mix of voices and motion. Families were passing suitcases up to children already on the train. Others were hopping off to run back for more.

A dark-skinned boy, tears streaming down his face, was holding tight to his mother, a beautiful woman with an oddly bored expression who was patting his back lightly as if she was trying to burp a baby. “Remember to dress warmly Blaise,” she said while surreptitiously glancing at the clock.

A pair of teenagers walked by comparing their newest body piercings.

A younger girl with dark-brown hair that curved around the side of her face, almost touching her chin, strolled along, taking everything in. Instead of hauling suitcases she wore a crammed backpack. On it was a shiny red button with white lettering that read ‘Stop The Production of Pointless Buttons.’ She was smiling, though she didn’t actually look especially happy.

The clock indicated that the train would be leaving in about thirty minutes. Draco wondered about the pair of orange-dressed wizards he’d seen just after breakfast. Would they make it on time? He didn’t really care – it was their fault if they didn’t.

As Draco scanned the platform looking for any familiar faces he asked absentmindedly, “Why are so many people carrying owls? Why wouldn’t their families send the owls on once they get to Hogwarts?”

“As I’ve told you before, many wizards are fools,” grumbled Lucius disdainfully. “Just look at that train. It is powered by magic, but for some reason somebody decided to make it pump filth into the sky. I imagine somebody thought it would look more interesting that way, giving no thought to the fact that we have to breathe this air.”

Draco noted the oily stench in the platform as Lucius continued, “That is the way it is with many wizards and witches – fascinated with silly tricks, fascinated with their ability to make things look cute or quirky, fascinated if things make a funny sound.”

“Lucius! Thought we’d see you here.” Two burly men, both about the same height as Draco’s father but much heftier, emerged out of the clouds of steam. One was busy cracking his knuckles, something he obviously had some practice at. The other stood slightly back, with his mouth hanging open, and looked a bit foolish.

“I see you’ve brought little Draconius down,” said the knuckle-cracker, a man that Draco recognized as someone who’d visited the estate a few times. “It’s funny, all of us having children about the same age, heading off to Hogwarts together.”

“Yes, you mentioned that last time we met, Vincent.” Lucius answered politely but with a slight trace of irritability.

“All sons too, of course.”

“Of course,” agreed the open-mouthed man who tugged at a too-short robe as if he was trying to pull it down to a proper length.

“Don’t suppose we’ll see Snape here, do you think?” Vincent lowered his voice, but if he was trying to be too quiet for Draco to hear, it wasn’t working.

“Severus? I do doubt that. If he isn’t at Hogwarts already I expect he would apparate to Hogsmeade, not waste his day riding on a train.”

“Thassa shame. Wouldn’t mind asking him a few questions, eh?”

Lucius smiled slightly condescendingly. “We’ve been through this before. It is idle rumours and nothing more. People say it, others repeat it. Can you honestly say that you have felt anything, Vincent? Or you, Wilfred?”

“Well, no, not exactly,” Vincent answered.

Wilfred shrugged. “Well, er, sometimes I wonder, you know. There might have been… once or twice.” His voice trailed away.

“An overactive imagination, that is all. You’re expecting to feel something and then every time you have an itch you start to imagine a much deeper meaning.”

The two men didn’t look entirely convinced. Vincent, the more talkative of the two, inhaled twice as if he was going say something and then changed his mind. Finally he grumbled, “Still, you never know. Thasswhy I wouldn’t mind asking Snape a few questions. I mean if anybody would know you’d think he would.”

For some reason this statement made Lucius look quite angry. He opened his mouth but a blast from the Hogwarts Express just as he was speaking made it impossible for Draco to hear what he was saying. Moments later Lucius turned to his son. “You should board the train now. I can tell you from experience that many wizards suddenly come at the last second and all pile on board together, so go on now and you can find a good seat.”

Vincent leaned down, something that didn’t look too easy considering the size of his mid-section, and pointed at the car directly in front of them. “Try that one. I think that’s where our boys settled.”

Draco nodded and turned to his father. He didn’t expect a hug or any big show of emotion so he said simply, “Thanks for getting me here.”

“You’re welcome,” said Lucius. The pair shook hands rather formally and Draco made his way to the Hogwarts Express. As he turned the brass handle of the door and climbed on board, Draco glanced back. His father wasn’t watching him board the train, but instead was continuing his conversation with the two stocky men.

The doorway opened into an ornate hallway with red carpets, windows draped in gauze curtains, and walls jutting with candlesticks, each containing a candle glowing but not burning.

The first couple of carriages didn’t contain anyone Draco recognized but the third held two beefy boys having some sort of pushing contest in an otherwise empty compartment. Even if Draco hadn’t recognized either of them he would have guessed by their size and appearance that they must be the children of the two men who had just been talking to Lucius. But Draco did recognize them. The one who seemed to be slowly losing ground was Vincent Crabbe, and Draco had met him a number of times over the last few years. Crabbe was his last name, but for some reason it was the name everyone called him, even his father. The other boy looked familiar too but Draco couldn’t recall his name. He pushed open the carriage door. Crabbe glanced over, lost his balance, and crashed backwards into the seats with the other boy falling in a heap on top of him.

“There you are, mate,” boomed Crabbe, as if he’d been expecting Draco all this time. His voice seemed far too deep for someone of his age. “Do you remember Greg?”

“Oh, of course, Gregory Goyle,” Draco said while stretching his hand out. “You came to my house with your father a couple of years ago.”

“Yeah, that’s right” said Greg, as Draco pumped his hand enthusiastically. “I brought those magic crows I’d just gotten for my birthday and we had a big fight with them.”

“I remember. Well, I’m very pleased to see you both on board.”

Crabbe roared with laughter, slapping his knee. “Does your dad tell you to talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“All formal-like.” He pursed his lips and stretched his face. “I’m very pleased to see you both on board. Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Vincent Crabbe the Fourth. I trust your Lordship is well this evening. I do apologize, I’m afraid I just stepped on your cat, how dreadfully boorish of me.”

“No… well, yes, I mean… yeah.” Draco realized it was true. His father was always telling him to speak more formally – to make the right impression, especially when first meeting someone, and he was usually careful to do so whenever Lucius was around.

Crabbe picked up a dark blue book emblazoned with the bright gold initials C.C.L.L. “Well grab a seat, you can relax with us, mate.” And that was true as well. Within minutes all three were laughing and talking like they were the best of friends.

Crabbe did imitations of his father which seemed funny even though neither of the other boys really knew Crabbe’s father well. Draco complained about not being able to bring his new broom and boasted about how well he could fly. Greg mostly listened, often open-mouthed like his father, looking impressed by everything.

 

*

A couple of hours later, as the view was briefly obscured by a flurry of alder trees growing close to the tracks, Crabbe threw out the question, “If you could have any magic item, what would it be?”

Draco said he’d take a magic wallet that never ran out of money. Greg just shrugged and asked Crabbe what he would pick.

“The Philosopher’s Stone, of course.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ve never heard of the Philosopher’s Stone?” Crabbe asked importantly, though he didn’t sound particularly surprised about Greg’s ignorance. “It’s bloody famous. Supposed to do all sorts of things – helps you see the future, turns lead into gold so I wouldn’t need to bother with a magic wallet. Best of all, it keeps you alive forever.”

“Like in that Muggle story.”

“What Muggle story?”

“You know,” said Greg, his face wrinkled in concentration. “The one with that kid who never grows old. It’s got this alligator with a hook that’s always trying to eat a clock, or maybe he’s always trying to eat a fairy, I forget which. Anyway, they fly around a lot and I think one of them falls in love with a pirate in the end. You know the one I mean?”

“Er, sure mate,” Crabbe nodded dubiously.

“I overheard my dad talking about the Philosopher’s Stone the other day, or one of them anyway, maybe there’s lot of them. Somebody from the Ministry of Magic told him that it had been moved to Hogwarts,” said Draco.

“Hogwarts! Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we’ll be using it in school for experiments or something.”

“Maybe you’ll get your wish. Maybe they’ll be giving it to a student like a prize,” smiled Greg.

“Yeah, maybe. As long as the Headmaster plans to award it to the one-hundred and seventy third best student at the end of the year, I might have a real shot!”

As the morning turned into afternoon the train steadily coiled its way north. Hills and forests came and went, but there never seemed to be any buildings near the tracks. A few people passed by in the hallway and glanced in but nobody else joined them in their carriage. The only interruption was when a witch came by with a snack cart. Draco wasn’t feeling too hungry, probably due to feeling nervous about what was waiting at the end of the journey, but he bought a small pile of chocolate frogs anyway, telling Greg and Crabbe to help themselves.

“Cheers mate,” said Crabbe, digging in.

When the chocolate frogs ran out and the conversation finally began to lag Crabbe suggested that they go explore the train before the trip was over.

Feeling a bit sleepy but not wanting to say no to his new friends, Draco said, “Sure,” with a small shrug.

“Yeah, why not,” Greg agreed, and the three set off to explore the train.

The first door they tried was locked.

Crabbe pulled out his wand and said, “Just leave it to me boys.” He waved his wand and muttered, “Elecantario.” Then he looked back with a big grin and said, “Nah just kidding. I don’t know how to use this thing. That’s why Mom and Dad are sending me to Hogwarts, right?”

Draco and Greg laughed as the trio turned around and made their way towards the back of the train. Except for the occasional storage closet and washroom, the train seemed to be one long series of compartments. Most of these were filled with students, although some were half-empty. In cars where friends had congregated there was whooping and yelling and lots of loud stories about what people did over the summer. In others students sat nervously in silence pretending to be interested in what was out the window.

They met a lot of other people in the corridors. Some were exploring the train, others were looking around to see which of their friends were on board and which weren’t. A lot of the people, even if they were total strangers, seemed inclined to strike up conversations about every imaginable topic.

“Do you know when we’re going to get there?”

“You guys get smaller every year.”

“You haven’t seen a toad by any chance, have you?”

The most popular conversation starter, however, seemed to be, “Did you know that Harry Potter is on board?” And, sure enough, when they’d almost reached the back of the train, Draco glanced inside a compartment and recognized the boy from the robe shop. He was sitting next to an enormous pile of sweets and discarded wrappers, talking animatedly to a red-haired boy.

“Is that him?” Greg pushed his face up to the glass though neither of the boys in the compartment took note.

“Who?”

“Harry Potter.”

“Might be,” Crabbe answered, “but I’ve never met him so I’m not sure. I recognize the other one though. That’s Ron…”

“Weasley,” Draco finished.

“Who’s Ron Weasley?” asked Greg.

“No one you want to know,” said Crabbe. “Mouthy little kipper who always talks big because he’s got a ton of older brothers hanging around to protect him.”

“Well I don’t see any brothers now. Maybe we should go in and say hello,” grinned Greg.

Draco wasn’t sure what to do. He wasn’t exactly excited about the idea of visiting these two. On the other hand, his father had encouraged him to befriend Potter. Part of the reason he was going to Hogwarts was to mix with people who would be influential some day and obviously, even at this age, Harry Potter was already influential. Maybe he should give it another try. Maybe after being stuck with Weasley for the whole trip, Harry was just waiting to be rescued. Trailed by Greg and Crabbe, Draco pushed his way into the compartment.

Even though he knew exactly who he was taking to, he said, “Is it true? They’re saying all down the train that Harry Potter’s in this compartment. So it’s you, is it?”

Now that was an introduction that would have made Draco’s father proud. Let Harry know everyone is talking about him, pump up his ego.

“Yes,” answered Harry Potter.

Draco groaned inwardly, Harry was back to his yes and no answers. Why didn’t this boy want to talk to him?

“This is Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle,” Draco said as politely as possible, “and my name’s Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.”

Ron Weasley suddenly laughed. Like Crabbe a few hours earlier, Draco’s formal way of introducing himself struck Ron as funny, but Draco jumped to the conclusion that Weasley must be laughing at who he was. After all, Weasley’s father had organized the search of the Malfoy’s house a few weeks earlier and he had probably boasted about it at home. Draco’s face flushed with anger. “Think my name’s funny, do you?” Then, speaking more to Harry, Greg, and Crabbe than to Ron, he added, “No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles and more children than they can afford.”

Ron didn’t answer. He just sat there with a big maddening smile on his face. Getting Potter away from Weasley was the only merciful thing to do.

Draco turned to Harry, “You’ll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Mr Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort,” and he gave an obvious nod towards Ron Weasley. “I can help you there.”

Draco stretched out his hand offering to shake, but instead of taking it, Harry Potter curled his upper lip into a sneer and snapped, “I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks.”

Draco, stunned and embarrassed, stood for a few more seconds with his arm stuck out feeling foolish, but Potter didn’t move; he just glared.

His anger rising further, Draco balled up his hand into a fist as he muttered, “I’d be careful if I were you, Potter. Unless you’re a bit politer you’ll go the same way as your parents. You hang around with riff-raff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid and it’ll rub off on you.” He hadn’t meant to make it sound like a threat. He was just trying to warn Potter about the crowd he was falling in with, but he knew it had come out sounding menacing. He knew too that the idea that he and Potter would become friends was pretty much dead. And, if there was ever any doubt of that, what happened next cleared things up.

Weasley leapt up and started yelling threats at all of them. Crabbe shouted back and both boys began pushing each other. Greg got into the act by making a move to steal some of their candy, but to everyone’s surprise (especially his own), instead of coming away with a handful of cauldron cakes, he was bitten by a rat that had been crawling amongst the pile.

“That’s right! Get him Scabbers,” cheered Weasley.

Greg, his hand bleeding profusely, waved his arm around the carriage trying to shake off the rat, which managed to hold its position with teeth clamped stubbornly down. Greg finally managed to rip Scabbers free with his other hand and hurled the rat away, getting some satisfaction from the thud it made as it hit a window. Weasley, no longer interested in Crabbe, rushed over to the rat which was lying on its back panting, looking oddly human-like.

Greg, clutching his injured hand, staggered out of the cabin. Draco spared one more angry glance for Potter before he and Crabbe followed. As they stepped into the hall, now stained with drops of blood, they nearly crashed into a girl no older than they were, with large teeth and piles of brown hair.

“Five minutes,” she said with a smile. “We’ll be at the station in five minutes.” She squeezed past them and slipped into Potter and Weasley’s cabin.


	5. Slytherin

The train rolled to a stop at Hogsmeade Station. The sky was black but lanterns lit up the wooden walkways with a pale light. There was a constant murmur as students poured out of the train, many of them wrestling with crates, bags and squawking cages. Draco Malfoy stepped smoothly down carrying his single suitcase.

“Come on Peter, I’m starving. Hey, did you get your nose pierced?”

“Hurrying won’t start the Feast any sooner.”

“Who nicked my suitcase? Chelsea, it was you, wasn’t it? Running away won’t help.”

“Wait a second, this isn’t my owl. Or, maybe it is. We just bought it yesterday but it doesn’t look like I remember.”

Most of the students seemed to already know what to do and where to go. Small groups steadily broke off, heading one way or another, emptying the platform with surprising speed. Draco glanced around at the diminishing crowd and felt reassured as Greg and Crabbe approached, dragging their respective piles of luggage.

“Firs’-years! Firs’-years over here!” came a booming guttural voice.

Draco could see a lantern waving above the heads of the students. In the light he could make out a huge bearded face and a waving arm.

“I guess that’s us,” said Crabbe as the three of them shuffled towards the bellowing.

Dozens of the smallest inhabitants of the train were also making their way to the same spot and milling around, whispering quietly amongst themselves in stark contrast to the exuberant shouting of the older students. There was a tension in the air as the new students tried to guess what came next. Of course, many of them had been told what would happen when they arrived, but they didn’t know if they were being teased or told the truth.

The view was impressive. A dark lake stretched out before them, lit only by the moon. Beyond that sat a huge castle perched on a hill, spilling light out of many windows.

“All right. Everybody here?” roared the huge man that Draco realized was Potter’s friend Hagrid.

“Didn’ they tell ya to leave your bags on the train? Well, ya can leave them here on the platform and they’ll be brought up to your rooms for ya. Don’t worry if it’s not labeled, it’ll get to ya all the same.”

Almost everyone obeyed, setting their luggage down. A few people continued to clutch smaller bags while Greg, despite his injured hand, kept a large wooden box tucked under his arm.

Hagrid began explaining how they would enter Hogwarts. Traditionally, he said, new students (which he kept calling ‘firs’-years’) were expected to cross the lake in small boats. He went on to explain how this tradition began but Draco had stopped listening. Instead, he squinted as his attention was drawn to a small object lodged in Hagrid’s beard. After studying it for a few moments he realized that it was a small bone, maybe a chicken leg. He felt a bubble of laughter rising up inside him. Unfortunately, Hagrid chose that very moment to stop talking. Just as silence fell, Draco burst out laughing, causing most of the group to turn and look at him.

“I… he’s got… er, sorry,” was all Draco managed to say.

“Right then, down to the boats with ya,” muttered Hagrid and the group of students suddenly surged forward down a pebbly path towards the shore where a small fleet bobbed in the water.

Draco climbed into a small boat and was joined by Greg, Crabbe, and a dark-haired girl who looked much older and larger than the other students. Except for Hagrid she was easily the largest person here. At first Draco assumed that she was some kind of teacher’s assistant but she had the same darting eyes and look of confused anticipation as the rest of the group.

“Everyone in?” shouted Hagrid, who had a boat to himself. “Right then – FORWARD!”

The presence of the strange girl seemed to impede any conversation, which actually came as a bit of a relief to Draco who wasn’t used to spending so much of a day socializing.

The shadowy castle grew steadily larger as they glided across the still lake. The conversations in the other boats died away too as they approached the far shore. Even the boats themselves, powered by who-knows-what, moved silently. The castle seemed to rise higher and higher above them until it became obvious that they weren’t pulling up to the far shore but were coming into a tunnel underneath the castle. Hagrid shouted a warning to stay low, although he was the only one who seemed in any danger of hitting his head, as the group pushed its way through the tunnel and into an expansive water-filled cavern right under the castle itself.

As they finally came to a stop the students piled out of the boats and were greeted by a creaking protest from an ancient dock. Hagrid started climbing some stone steps and though he gave no instructions, the group followed along behind. From time to time Hagrid stopped while the slower students, some of whom were having a hard time finding their way up the dark damp stairs, caught up. Eventually they emerged through an arched opening and found themselves close to the front of the castle. Excitement gripped the first-years as some of them pushed forward towards the front door. As they arrived, Hagrid asked if everyone was here. When no one said they weren’t, he turned and pounded three times.

A gaunt woman with pinched cheeks and emerald green robes opened the door. She stared at them with a frown which suggested that she was not particularly impressed by this group, although it was hard to imagine how she could have judged them so quickly. After exchanging a few words with Hagrid she waved for the students to come in.

The Entrance Hall was even more impressive than the facade of the castle. It was hard to see the size of the entire chamber as it was lit by only a few guttering torches spaced far apart, but there was enough light to show off the room’s main features. A beautiful marble stairway climbed up into the building while another smaller stairway led down. Sculpted archways, some outlining large doors, led to other halls and rooms. The walls were adorned with dozens of works of art, while four large hourglasses filled with what appeared to be bright gems – red, blue, green, and yellow – sat neatly on one side.

The students, some looking around with admiration, others too deep in thought to take it all in, were directed by the witch in the emerald robes into a small gloomy chamber off of the Entrance Hall. There was a flurry of students whispering to each other. Half were asking what was going to happen next and the other half were answering the question.

The tall witch followed them inside. Then, with her back to the now closed door, she announced in a rather unwelcoming voice, “Welcome to Hogwarts. I am Professor McGonagall.”

The whispering quickly stopped, yet the students could still hear a thrum of voices seeping in from another room. A rush of excitement filled the room as it became obvious that the students were about to join the rest of the school. Draco wondered exactly how many students Hogwarts had, and was speculating about what would happen next, when he realized that Professor McGonagall had just been explaining that very thing and that she’d just said something about a ‘ceremony.’

“What did she say?” whispered Draco frantically to no one in particular.

“Shhhhhh,” came the response from every direction.

“…with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory and spend free time in your house common room. Any questions so far?”

Draco considered putting his hand up but hesitated too long. Professor McGonagall continued, “The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup, a great honour. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours.”

Professor McGonagall finished her speech with, “The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting,” before walking rapidly out of the room

Draco’s heart started hammering hard again. Sorting Ceremony? Why hadn’t he asked his father more questions about what to expect, or at least paid attention to what McGonagall had been saying? What if he’d missed some important instructions about what to do next? Draco had finally worked up the courage to ask the equally nervous looking girl next to him what they were supposed to do when several screams broke out amongst the group.

More than a dozen ghosts had drifted lazily through the wall and were making their way over the heads of the students. It took Draco a few moments to realize that it was the ghosts that had caused the screaming. It was more than a little surprising that anyone would be scared of them, especially since there was nothing unusual about these ones. They were just typical, white, transparent, floating ghosts.

Draco’s tension ebbed a little and he chuckled to himself, “No better than Muggles.”

Most of the ghosts paid no particular attention to the crowd of students. They simply flew past, through the wall and into the noisy room beyond. However one of the last, a rather large fellow with a droopy face, suddenly stopped, seeming to notice the children below for the first time.

“New students,” he muttered. “About to be sorted, I suppose.”

Then he called out to the crowd, “Hope to see you in Hufflepuff, my old house you know.”

Just then Professor McGonagall strode back into the room. She snapped at the ghost to move along and for the students to line up, which proved to be extremely difficult in the crowded area.

After about a minute of shoving and shuffling, an even more displeased looking Professor McGonagall sighed, “Oh just follow me as best you can.”

They were led back across the flagged Entrance Hall and through a large pair of doors into the Great Hall. The huge chamber had thousands of candles floating in the air while the ceiling, which was enchanted to display whatever it looked like outside, seemed to be full of stars. But despite the fantastic setting, what drew most of the first-years’ attention was the hundreds of students sitting at four long tables, talking, whispering and pointing up at them as the new arrivals slowly made their way to the front of the room, eventually clustering at one end of the Great Hall. Behind them was another long table, raised slightly above the rest of the room, where many adults – presumably teachers – were seated.

As the first-years milled about nervously, Draco became acutely aware that almost everyone in the room was bigger than him. Even many of the new students were larger. Being at home, fighting with Dobby, playing with his sisters, or just sitting alone in his room suddenly seemed surprisingly appealing.

What was even more disconcerting was the way that the crowd was looking at them – giggling and pointing, like they were looking at a display of merchandise that was clearly less impressive than had been advertised. To avoid the searching eyes, Draco feigned interest in the decorations that had been scattered along the walls to celebrate the start-of-term feast. The colourful ribbons, no matter how pretty they may have appeared to whoever had put them up, did little to distract him, but a large crest, seemingly carved right into the wall itself behind the High Table, did grab Draco’s attention. It was a much more elaborate version of the crest on the Hogwarts robes. It had a huge letter H in the middle surrounded by four animals – a lion, a badger, a snake and a raven. Underneath the crest was written the motto:

_Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus_

While puzzling over why his name was etched on the wall, Draco slowly became aware that the room had fallen silent, except for the sound of one singing voice. Everyone was now staring at a hat, which was perched on a stool in front of the row of first-years. It took Draco a few moments to realize that it was the hat itself which was singing.

 

_“Oh you may not think I’m pretty,_

_But don’t judge on what you see,_

_I’ll eat myself if you can find_

_A smarter hat than me._

_You can keep your bowlers black,_

_Your top hats sleek and tall,_

_For I’m the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_

_And I can cap them all._

_There’s nothing hidden in your head_

_The Sorting Hat can’t see,_

_So try me on and I will tell you_

_Where you ought to be._

_You might belong in Gryffindor,_

_Where dwell the brave at heart,_

_Their daring nerve and chivalry_

_Set Gryffindors apart;_

_You might belong in Hufflepuff,_

_Where they are just and loyal,_

_Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_

_And unafraid of toil;_

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_

_If you’ve a ready mind,_

_Where those of wit and learning,_

_Will always find their kind;_

_Or perhaps in Slytherin_

_You’ll make your real friends,_

_Those cunning folk use any means_

_To achieve their ends._

_So put me on! Don’t be afraid!_

_And don’t get in a flap!_

_You’re in safe hands (though I have none)_

_For I’m a thinking Cap!”_

Everyone clapped politely when the cap stopped singing since it seemed to be the thing to do. The hat bobbed happily, enjoying the attention.

The song had actually made Draco feel a bit better. His father had made it sound like ending up in any house other than Slytherin showed that there was something seriously wrong with you, but the hat had made all of them sound pretty good. It had called the Ravenclaws the most intelligent, the Gryffindors bravest, the Hufflepuffs most reliable. Putting it that way almost made it embarrassing not to be put in one of those houses.

Draco suddenly caught himself wondering why his father hadn’t been put in Ravenclaw.Professor McGonagall walked up next to the Sorting Hat and announced to the row of first-years, “When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted.”

Draco’s nervous aches returned with full force, running from his chest through his stomach to his legs and back again. When Professor McGonagall called, “Abbott, Hannah,” Draco felt a tingle of relief as he realized they would be going in alphabetical order. Hopefully by the time it was his turn, all those staring giggling faces wouldn’t be paying quite so close attention.

Hannah Abbott didn’t have the same good fortune. Every eye in the room was on her, with the students in the back standing up to get a better look. She was blushing and nervously playing with one of her pigtails with one hand, as she picked up the hat with the other.

Professor McGonagall hissed, “Hurry up girl! We haven’t got all night. It’s got an anti-lice charm on it if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Hannah sat on the stool and placed the hat on her head. It was so large that it slipped down over her eyes. After a couple of seconds the hat, using the same rip or fold (it was hard to tell the difference) from which it had sung moments earlier, shouted, “Hufflepuff!” causing loud cheering to break out at the table nearest the double doors of the Hall.

Hannah, unsure what to do next, continued to sit until Professor McGonagall growled, “Well… take it off, girl,” – provoking a round of chuckles – “and go and sit at your table.”

Hannah pulled off the hat and tried to hand it to Professor McGonagall, causing the tall witch to sigh in exasperation. “Put it on the chair,” she whispered loud enough for half the room to hear.

Susan Bones was the next called up and she too got sent to the Hufflepuff table. By the time it was Terry Boot’s turn, the first-years had a pretty good idea of what was expected of them.

Terry, a slightly cross-eyed boy, became a Ravenclaw, as did the next student called up. Lavender Brown was sent to Gryffindor and Draco rightly guessed that a group of three red-headed boys cheering loudly were three of Ron Weasley’s older brothers. Millicent Bulstrode, a stocky and unpleasant looking girl, was the first to become a Slytherin and Crabbe followed her shortly afterwards.

Draco began studying the faces of the students at the different tables trying to see if there was a certain look to the different houses. The Gryffindors, where the Weasleys were sitting, seemed the loudest and wildest while the Hufflepuffs seemed the quietest. The Ravenclaws seemed to be, on average, smaller and thinner. They also seemed less interested in what was going on than those at the other tables.

The Slytherins were harder to categorize. Some had smug looks that immediately made you dislike them, while others looked either friendly or completely unreadable. Some sat quietly, ignoring their neighbours, while others clustered in animated groups.

After watching Gregory Goyle pick up his box and trot over to join the Slytherins, Draco started studying the new students approaching the Sorting Hat and tried to guess what house they would be sorted into. Draco got “Granger, Hermione” (the girl who smiled at him on the train) wrong. He though she looked like a Hufflepuff but she actually got sent to Gryffindor. Draco was luckier with “Hart, Jonathan” who, as he predicted, was sent to Ravenclaw. But he got the next four wrong in a row and gave up trying. Besides, he was having more and more trouble concentrating as they steadily came closer to the letter ‘M’. By the time “MacDougal, Morag,” a short girl with tightly curled brown hair, was called and sent to Ravenclaw, Draco’s heart was hammering so loudly that he wondered if other people could hear it too.

“Malfoy, Draco,” called Professor McGonagall.

Draco stepped out of line and walked towards the Sorting Hat. Part of him was very conscious about the way he was walking, trying hard to walk naturally and not seem nervous, which of course resulted in a very odd unnatural walk. The rest of him was busily worrying about what house he was about to be assigned to.

It still seemed very important to go to Slytherin. He could just imagine how disappointed his father would be otherwise. On the other hand, he certainly wanted to be considered smart, so Ravenclaw might not be so terrible. The only one Draco was pretty sure he didn’t want to be put in was Gryffindor, mainly because he didn’t want to end up in a house full of Weasleys. What if both he and Ron were put into Gryffindor? What a nightmare that would be, having to share a common room, maybe even a dorm room with Ron Weasley.

Draco picked up the hat and began slipping it on. His head immediately spun, while what felt like an ocean wave crashed through the inside of his skull. A moment later a voice rang out over the Great Hall, announcing “Slytherin,” but an awful lot seemed to have happened in that moment. It was as if the Sorting Hat had asked him dozens of questions, maybe even thousands, and he’d answered them all automatically.

But he could only remember vague images. It was like trying to remember a dream the day after having it. One thing Draco thought he could remember was arguing with the hat.

“Slytherin?” it asked, “but you’ve got more bravery than anyone else I’ve seen today, though I must say, you keep it well hidden!”

“Don’t put me in Gryffindor, all my family have been in Slytherin, just put me there.”

“Hmmm, You’ve got quite a stubborn streak, which seems rather Hufflepuffy if you ask me.”

Draco, stumbling towards the Slytherin table where there was cheering and clapping, was shaken out of his thoughts by someone slapping him hard on the back.

“That’s great mate, we’re all together,” shouted Crabbe at him.

“All in the best house, can you believe it?” grinned Greg, guiding Draco to an empty seat at the Slytherin table. Draco quickly saw why the chair was still empty. Greg was sitting to his right and Crabbe took a chair across from him, but to Draco’s left was a large silver ghost staring angrily into the distance, pale chains draped across his lap.

Draco didn’t mind. Slytherin was exactly where he wanted to be, wasn’t it? And, in any case, the sorting was over. He could finally relax and just watch what happened to the rest of the students. After another minute or two, his heart finally stopped pounding like it was trying to crack his ribs.

“Pansy Parkinson.”

Draco recognized Pansy as the girl that he’d seen on platform nine and three-quarters with the dark-brown hair and the backpack with the red button. Instead of expressing her feelings with her mouth, which still seemed fixed in a permanent smile, Pansy did it with her eyes. Draco could see it all as he watched her come up to be sorted. Tension, followed by a slight look of disappointment after the hat had called Slytherin.

Pansy made her way down the table to an empty seat near the end, barely nodding to those around her before she finally settled into a chair. Draco was trying to decide if Pansy was shy or just nervous when he heard “Potter, Harry.” Draco whirled and saw the young boy he’d met twice now strut up to the hat. Potter had a slight smirk as he slipped it over his head.

Time passed and the students in the room were strangely silent, watching Potter sit with his eyes closed under the Sorting Hat. Finally, after taking longer than it normally did, the hat called “Gryffindor.”

The tables had been cheering every time someone had been sent their way but as the sorting went on, the celebrations had become more restrained. But when Potter was sent to Gryffindor the cheering was wilder than ever before. The hooting turned into a steady chant of “We got Potter! We got Potter!”

As Potter crossed the floor, now being escorted by a group of older students still cheering and slapping him on the back, he looked straight into Draco’s eyes. Potter’s mouth seemed to stretch into a big mocking grin as if to say, “Hey, look how popular I am! I don’t remember _you_ getting welcomed like this.”

It was obvious why the Gryffindors were so thrilled to get Potter in their house – he was famous. It was hard to understand exactly why he was famous – all he had done was been around when the Dark Lord’s spell had backfired. Either way, they would soon find out what a sulky little rat he was, Draco was sure of that.

A few minutes later, while the Gryffindor table was still celebrating raucously, “Weasley, Ron” was called up.

“Not Slytherin,” whispered Draco.

Crabbe overheard the almost silent wish and mumbled back, “Too right.”

There was a collective sigh of relief when Ron Weasley was sent off to the Gryffindor table.

After Ron, it appeared that only one more student needed to be sorted and by this time hardly anybody seemed to be paying attention anymore. So when Blaise Zabini, a black boy with high cheekbones, was sent to the Slytherin table he received only a smattering of applause.

Apparently Professor McGonagall thought that Blaise was the last student as well because she rolled up her parchment of names and made to collect the Sorting Hat when some whispered words from the staff table directed her attention to the tall girl who had shared the boat ride with Draco. Instead of crowding forward with the other students, she had remained next to a wall and for whatever reason she had never been called up. But, after some more heated whispers amongst the teachers Professor McGonagall waved her forward.

“So sorry my dear,” Professor McGonagall said quietly, making no attempt to get everyone’s attention again. Only those at the very front could hear her over the rumble of voices as she called for “Morgan, Dianna.”

The black-haired girl sat under the hat nervously playing with her robe. A few seconds later the hat announced, “Slytherin,” but instead of shouting it out, the hat said it quietly, as if it knew that no one was really paying attention. As Dianna made her way to the Slytherin table, a few people seemed to take notice and clapped half-heartedly.

An elderly wizard with half-moon spectacles, bright silver hair, and a crooked nose that would have looked more in place on an aging boxer than a wizard, rose to his feet.

Some of the older students whispered, “That’s Albus Dumbledore,” in case any of the younger ones didn’t know who the Headmaster was.

The noise in the hall quickly died down, although the Gryffindor table took a bit longer to quiet than the others.

Albus Dumbledore spread his arms wide and announced, “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!”

Then with a “thank you,” and a little bow, Professor Dumbledore sat down.

“What did he say?” asked Greg.

“I don’t know,” muttered Crabbe in bafflement.

All the empty black bowls and platters spread across the table were suddenly filled with food. Almost everything looked delicious and as if it had just been taken out the oven seconds earlier. Draco hadn’t eaten for most of the day, but considering how nervous he’d been over the last few hours, he hadn’t minded. But now that the sorting was done, he was suddenly famished.

Hands grabbed at the bowls of foil-wrapped potatoes, pots of steaming soup, roast chicken, pickles, sliced cheese and everything else that was scattered around the table. Draco, seated next to the rather large ghost, had a bit of an advantage over the other students.

“Are you going to have that?” asked Draco with a grin, pointing at a plate that sat in front of the ghost of steaming muffins topped with a big slice of butter rapidly melting away.

He turned and grimaced dangerously. “Very funny, boy.”

As Draco reached for the plate, the ghost grabbed his wrist. The translucent hands didn’t actually manage to grab flesh of course, but as the two beings came into contact, Draco felt the icy chill of the ghost’s touch.

The sensation raced along his arm and down his spine. In seconds he was covered in goosebumps.

“Whoa… ouch… ahhh… I’m freezing! What’s that like for you? Do you feel warmer when you touch people?”

The big ghost stared at him with an even more menacing look. “There’s not a lot of people who’d be foolish enough to anger the Bloody Baron.”

Draco wasn’t intimidated as he casually reached for some chicken instead. He’d met enough ghosts to know that they were harmless enough, or at least he hoped that was true. “The Bloody Baron? Kind of strange name isn’t it? I can just imagine your parents, Sidney and Barbara Baron saying, oh what a sweet little boy, let’s name him Bloody.”

The ghost slammed his hand down on the table and for some strange reason, instead of passing through, it caused a banging sound and rattled a few plates around. Most of the Slytherins sitting nearby were now watching the exchange.

“The Bloody Baron is just a nickname. My real name is Baron Steadworth.”

“Well, why do they call you Bloody, then?”

“Because of certain events in my life and… my death, and because of the blood, obviously,” said the ghost, indicating his own chest.

“Mmmmm,” said Draco making another grab for the plate of rapidly cooling muffins, while squinting at the Baron’s chest.

“I don’t know about that,” said Draco. “I mean it’s just all white and silvery, doesn’t really look very bloody and all does it? Maybe you just spilled some soup on yourself.”

Even though the Baron wasn’t breathing, his nostrils flared.

“You’re pretty cocky,” said the Baron. Moments later the ghost flashed the smallest of smiles, “I like that. Welcome to Slytherin, boy.”

“Draco, Draco Malfoy.”

“Malfoy… that rings a bell.”

“Well, maybe you knew my father, Lucius? He was a student here a number of years ago. He was in Slytherin as well.”

The Baron thought for a few seconds and then said, “I think I remember him. If he’s the boy I’m thinking of then he was a mouthy little runt too.”

For the rest of the meal Draco felt lighthearted, almost giddy, and he gorged himself while chatting happily with Crabbe, Gregory and the Baron. Most of the students had been finished eating for a long time by the time Draco was stuffing a final grape into his mouth.

Professor Dumbledore chose this moment to rise to his feet and make several announcements including warning the students to stay out of the forest and stating that “the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.”

“Staying out of the forest makes sense. I’ve heard that there are werewolves in it,” Blaise called down the table.

“Loads of them,” someone piped up and many of the older students nodded their agreement.

“But why the third-floor corridor? We could go through there last year,” complained a round-faced girl.

“And what does he mean by ‘right-hand side.’ I mean wouldn’t that depend on which way you’re standing?”

The conversation was cut short by a call for a feast-ending rendition of the school song. Draco wasn’t aware that there even was a school song, but he enjoyed watching the ensuing cacophony as everyone seemed to sing the song slightly differently. The words appeared in the air for the new students, although some, including Crabbe, already knew the song by heart.

After the song, several older students got up and started calling things like “First-year Hufflepuffs this way!” “Ravenclaws over here!” “Follow me!”

As Draco got up the Bloody Baron said, “Yes.”

“Pardon me?” said Draco in return.

“You asked if we ghosts felt warmer when we touch the living. The answer is yes, touching the living does give a most unpleasant warmth – almost a burning feeling. That is why we ghosts try never to touch people if it can be avoided.”

“Oh. Well, I won’t give you a goodnight hug then.”

“Good.”

The first-year Slytherins gathered around a lanky older boy with a mischievous smile. “This way, my tiny charges, this way. That’s right, to the back of the room. We’ll just stay here a moment and let the crowds clear a bit – a lot easier than everyone trying to push their way out of the Great Hall at once. I’m Darren MacIntyre and I’m pleased to serve as your Prefect for this year so if you’ve got any questions, any questions at all, make sure you ask someone else. When it’s time to move out, mind that you keep up. If you get lost you’ll probably be eaten by trolls.”

Once outside the Great Hall the Slytherins marched along a barely-lit hallway, turned through a stone archway, and made their way down a broad set of stairs.

Darren called back, “Keep up, wee ones. As you’ve probably noticed, the first-years of the different houses are going off to different places. We all eat together in the Great Hall and we even share classes sometimes, especially in the upper-years, but we have our own part of the castle in which to sleep, socialize, relax and even study, if you’re that sort. And that’s a good thing because if you’ve ever smelled some Gryffindors up close you wouldn’t want to be spending every evening sitting next to one. We are currently going down to our common area so I suggest you remember the way; otherwise you might have a little trouble tomorrow. On the other hand, if you are thick enough not to remember the way you probably deserve what you get.”

After going down many corridors and stairways and switching direction a dozen times, the group finally stopped in the middle of a damp hallway. The trip had taken much longer than they had expected and it had grown steadily colder as they went down. Some of the students were shivering while they looked back the way they’d come trying to remember all the twists and turns.

“Here it is,” said Darren pointing at a blank wall lit by flickering torches.

“That’ll be easy to remember,” grumbled one of the girls.

“Come to this spot and say the password. We change our password every week. The new password will be posted on the noticeboard inside on Sundays only. I hope you all can read, although looking at the size of you I’m not sure if you’re old enough. Except for you,” Darren said pointing at Dianna, the girl who’d almost been missed during the Sorting Ceremony. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“I’m a first-year and I’ve been put in Slytherin,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“If you think I’d believe that, you’re daft.” Darren pulled out his wand.

Circling it over Dianna’s head, the Prefect intoned, “Shmeehaus.”

As a shower of sparks sprinkled over Dianna, Pansy Parkinson said, “I thought we weren’t supposed to do magic in the hallways.”

“Shut your mouth you, or I’ll take some points from Slytherin,” snapped Darren with a wink and a half-smile.

The sparks swirled over her head like a glowing crown. After a few moments they turned green and started to move together in a pattern, eventually coalescing into one long line coiled around Dianna like a snake.

“Hmph,” said Darren. “Well you are a Slytherin. Have your parents been feeding you Growth potions all your life?”

Dianna just reddened and stared at the floor without answering.

“Anyway, ‘Dragon’ is this week’s password,” said Darren, turning back towards the blank wall.

As soon as he said the word, the stone started shifting. It was hard to tell if it was sliding away or simply disappearing, but there was suddenly a hole in the wall.

“Go go go!” yelled Darren. “It only stays open a few seconds.”

The first-years poured into the Slytherin common room. It was not particularly wide, but it was long, illuminated by the glow of many green lamps hanging by chains from the ceiling. The rough chiseled stone walls were in sharp contrast to the elegant elaborately carved furniture in the room. Some of the chairs and sofas were upholstered, inevitably in green, while others were simply wood, but all of it looked like it belonged in the finest of homes. Most impressive was the intricate mantle above the large fireplace, though newcomers’ attention tended to be drawn instead to two skulls set on either end, each adorned with burning candles. Below this was a blazing fire. It was impossible to say whether this was what made the room warmer than the hallway outside or if the warmth was due to the crowd of people inside, clapping as the first-years entered. It seemed like all the Slytherins were here. The fact that they’d all beaten them down here made Draco suspect that Darren hadn’t quite shown them the most direct route to the common room.

The Slytherin students grew quiet and formed a large semi-circle around the new arrivals.

An older figure with black hair parted in the middle and wearing a long black cape stepped out of the crowd. “I am Professor Severus Snape, head of Slytherin house. For many of you I will also be your Potions instructor. I hope you shall prove to be excellent students – unlike most of those that have come before you.”

Some of the older students laughed, although Professor Snape didn’t look like he was joking.

“I must warn you that it is my unfortunate duty to discipline any students of my house that run afoul of the school rules. Since I do not want Slytherin to start well behind all the other houses in the race for the House Cup, I shall leave now before any infringements of those rules occur.”

Professor Snape nodded curtly and swept away. As he was stepping out through the wall he said, “Oh, I almost forgot – Welcome to Hogwarts.”

As soon as the Professor was gone, somebody yelled, “Light it up, Marcus!”

A muscular boy pointed his wand at the wall sending out a green bolt. When the missile struck, it turned suddenly and raced sideways leaving a green streamer in its wake. It circled the room three times and then began criss-crossing the ceiling. By the time it faded away the room was suitably decorated. Then the older students broke open their semi-circle, revealing a long table piled high with drinks and desserts, many of which seemed to have been recently pilfered from the start-of-term feast.

It had been a long day but nevertheless the party went on well into the night in a whirl of food and conversation.

“We were never that small.”

“If you talk to anybody from another house, tell them our common room is under the lake. It isn’t of course but it keeps them busy hunting for lower passages that don’t really exist.”

“Who took the fudge? There was a bunch here a second ago.”

The first-years met so many people that the names and faces quickly began to blur together. Everyone seemed quite friendly although there was something about the behaviour of the older students that seemed a bit odd. People were asking a lot of questions but no one seemed particularly interested in Draco’s family or past. He’d been asked three times if he thought he remembered the way to the common room, yet no one had asked him if he had any brothers or sisters.

It was after midnight before the party finally started breaking up. Small groups of people drifted away. For Draco, it was hard to believe that just this morning he had been having breakfast with his father in London. Not sure where he was supposed to go now, Draco explored the common room a bit, eventually making his way over to the noticeboard. On it were just two announcements. One said that if anyone wanted to be on the Slytherin Quidditch team they should sign up on the form below. The second mentioned that next week’s password was ‘Knot Dragon.’

“First-year boys gather round. That’s right, come this way. No, not you miss, I said boys. You do speak English, don’t you?” Greg, Draco, and Crabbe all made their way over to where Darren was calling them. They were joined by Blaise Zabini and a weedy boy named Theodore Nott. Draco had met Theodore a few times back at home and remembered him as a generally quiet fellow who sometimes made disturbing suggestions like, “Want to burn the house down?” If he’d met Blaise before today he couldn’t remember it.

There were seventeen black doors scattered around the common room. Most were at ground level, though a few had small sets of stairs leading up to them. Darren MacIntyre pointed at the third door on the left. “This is your dormitory, reserved just for you. It will continue to be your dormitory next year and the year after and so on until you either graduate or finally admit that you are too stupid to be coming to Hogwarts and return home, so try not to lose track of it. The door has been enchanted to only allow yourselves and any invited guests into the dormitory. However, sometimes the doors can get a little confused. If you’ve had the same person as a guest a number of times, the door might just start letting them in. Sometimes it will open for someone that just looks like you, and if you somehow manage to make the door angry, it might not let you in at all. More likely, though, it just won’t let you out. In which case you will slowly starve to death, and I should add that none of us will miss you, even if we happen to notice that you are gone, which we won’t. Anyway, off you go my tiny charges, scamper away and explore your new kingdom.”

The unmarked black doorway led to a set of stairs going down still further under the castle. The five boys followed it and soon found themselves inside a room with a table, a few chairs, and a large mysterious circle of glass on the floor. Branching off of the room were seven openings. Only one had a door, and they would later discover that this led to a bathroom. The other six were covered by black curtains.

Draco chose one curtain at random and investigated the cavern beyond. It wasn’t huge but it did contain a pleasantly large bed with thick black blankets and six pillows. It also contained something else, though it was hard to make out what the object was in the little light that the open doorway to the common room provided. When he moved close enough, he recognized the object as his suitcase. Draco stood there dumbstruck, wondering how whoever brought his suitcase in knew that he would chose this bedroom.

His musings were interrupted by Darren calling down from above, “Goodnight then.”

He closed the door, plunging the entire dormitory into darkness.

“Hey,” bellowed Blaise, “how do we turn on the lights?”

They heard the muffled voice of Darren answering from the common room. “You’re wizards! You’ll figure it out soon enough.”

But Draco didn’t care. He just pulled his shoes off and fell onto his bed. Everything else could wait until the morning.


	6. In the Shade of the Apple Tree

It was pitch black. Draco often woke before the sun came up, but it was never this dark. A wave of panic rolled over him as he thought there must be something wrong with his eyes, but after a few seconds he remembered where he was and the events of yesterday came flooding back.

Relieved that his vision was still functioning, he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the castle. Muffled voices could be heard dimly in the distance. The quiet repetitive breathing of sleeping boys was much nearer; one of them occasionally made a honking kind of snore. Over it all there was an odd rumbling hum.

Draco sat up but he still couldn’t see a thing, not even his hand when he waved it in front of his face. The only way of illuminating the room that he could think of was to find his way back up the stairs and open the door, so he stood up and started stumbling around. Twice he found himself in bedrooms before he finally found the right archway that led to the stairway, which he only discovered after stubbing a toe on the bottom stair. He climbed up, pushed the door open, and squinted into the unpleasantly bright common room.

“Here, don’t you have classes today?” asked a robed girl walking quickly past him.

From across the room, a blond boy not much larger than Draco himself called, “Hey there first-year, missed breakfast did you?”

“What time is it?”

“It’s twenty to nine. You’d better hurry along. You do know where your class is, right?” the girl called back with a wink as she made her way to the common room door.

“Oh no, oh no,” whispered Draco, thundering back down the stairs.

He’d never been to a regular school before but he was pretty sure that being late for your first class was a bad thing.

“Get up! Get up!” Draco bellowed.

Crabbe, Greg, and Blaise all started asking what was going on at the same time. Draco explained the situation while snatching up his suitcase and throwing it on the bed. He paused, realizing that the rumbling hum he’d heard earlier was actually coming from the suitcase. It didn’t feel like it was vibrating or that anything was moving inside but there was definitely a sound emanating from it. He suddenly remembered Lucius Malfoy’s warning to not leave anything inside for more than twenty-four hours.

He quickly flipped his suitcase open, turned it over and shook everything out onto his bed. He could tell that the pile of items that spilled out was smaller than the pile he’d packed, but in the dim light it was hard to tell what was missing.

Vowing to take a careful inventory later, Draco sifted through his belongings searching for the one thing he needed the most, a robe. He searched and searched again but one wasn’t to be found. Draco collapsed on to his knees imagining the letter his father was going to receive tomorrow:

> ... ** _didn’t come to his first class, never even brought a school robe. Perhaps he’d do better at a Muggle school…_**

In desperation he flipped the suitcase back over and felt around inside, his spirits rising when, sure enough, his hand came across a thick lump of material. But try as he may, he couldn’t get it to come out. Dragging the open case – which thudded on each step – behind him, he half-ran up the stairs and threw it down in the light of the common room. Sure enough, he recognized the lump of material as one of his Hogwarts robes. The problem was that the material of the robe seemed to have somehow merged with the lining of the suitcase.

Draco tugged. He turned the suitcase upside-down and shook it. He tried banging it on the floor.

An older boy, with a smattering of whiskers that he probably imagined passed for a beard, walked by, raising one eyebrow.

Draco threw down the suitcase, grabbed the robe and just pulled. For another moment the robe stubbornly refused to move, and then it finally gave way. With relief Draco pulled the robe over his head, and pulled on his shoes. Pushing the suitcase back down the stairs, he started running for the common room exit when he suddenly realized he had no idea where he was going. He didn’t even know what class he was supposed to be in. His legs, suddenly too weak to hold him, gave way and Draco dropped into a nearby chair. As he looked down at his knees he realized that most of the bottom half of his robe was missing.

“Arrrghhh,” he screamed. A lean black cat darted underneath a sofa.

Draco sometimes had repetitive dreams. A common and quite pleasant one was where could fly without a broom. However another recurring dream was that he was late for something – a dinner, a meeting with his father, or an appointment – and he was hurrying to try to get there. But the more he hurried the later it got and he never seemed to make much progress. Sitting in the thick green chair, Draco wished he was dreaming, but he was sure he wasn’t. This was really happening.

He looked around the room hoping to see somebody, hoping someone could tell him where he was supposed to go. He was thinking about pounding on some of the black doors around the edges of the room when his eyes came to rest on the noticeboard. It was covered in white papers that hadn’t been there the night before. Draco leaped up and ran over to investigate, the black cat studying him warily from its hiding place.

Alongside the sign-up sheet about Quidditch that he’d seen the night before, the board was now covered with schedules for all the new students, identical except for the names on top. Draco snatched down the one labeled “D. Malfoy” and studied it quickly. It told him that at 9:00 Monday he was supposed to be in Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall.

Draco ran as fast as he could, not really thinking about where he was going. He didn’t try to find the route he’d been led down last night, he just tried to go up. The corridors in the dungeons were all empty but when he finally emerged into a large hallway on the main floor there was still a smattering of students hurrying to class.

“Does anyone know the way to the Transfiguration class?” he gasped.

Most of the students didn’t respond but a couple called back and pointed vaguely in the direction he was supposed to go. Draco continued to run but he was tiring out and definitely slowing down. He asked everyone he came across if they knew where the classroom was. More than once he got the feeling he’d been directed back towards a hallway he’d already been down.

The corridors became completely deserted and a bell rang indicating that nine o’clock had come and gone. Guessing that he must be close, Draco started peeking in the rooms one by one.

“What are you doing out of your classroom? Do you have a pass?” wheezed a hunchbacked man in a long brown coat. A dust-coloured cat was twining itself between his legs.

“What?”

“I said, what are you doing out of your classroom?”

“I don’t know where my classroom is.”

“A likely story! You can spot the troublemakers right away. Always getting into where they shouldn’t but having an excuse nice and handy for when someone notices.” A crooked half-smile crept across the man’s face, showing just how pleased he was at catching someone breaking a rule.

At that moment the pinch-faced woman who’d run the Sorting Hat ceremony the previous night popped out of a doorway close by and snapped, “Mr Filch, could you please stop bellowing in the hallway? Classes have begun.”

She then eyed up Draco and said, “Aren’t you a little late, Malfoy?”

Draco, wondering how she knew his name, followed her into the classroom. Dianna was sitting at a table with Millicent Bulstrode, while Theodore Nott, who gave Draco a small wave of recognition, sat by himself.

“It is always such a pleasure having Slytherins in the first class of the first day of school. Nice that so many of you could bother to join me. I assume the rest of them are still sleeping or are so confidant about completing the final exams that they don’t really feel that attending class is necessary.”

Draco continued standing, not knowing if he was expected to answer.

“Why are you wearing only half a robe, Malfoy?”

The few students in the room laughed.

“I… well, it’s a bit hard to explain… some of it kind of got caught in my suitcase Professor… Professor…”

“It’s McGonagall. Professor McGonagall. Oh I know it has been a long time since last night when I introduced myself to you and I know you probably haven’t bothered reading the name of the instructor on your schedule, so I can’t imagine you’d remember me.” The Transfiguration teacher’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Do you have a copy of _A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration,_ Malfoy?”

“Er, I’m not sure, Professor.”

“My name is Professor McGonagall. Did you forget again already?”

“I’m not sure, Professor McGonagall. I had one, but my suitcase might have eaten it. I haven’t really had a chance to see what’s left yet.”

“Charming. Do sit down, Malfoy, I suggest you sit next to someone who did bother buying the course textbook.”

Draco, his face bright red, started to make his way over to Theodore’s table.

“Wait a moment,” Professor McGonagall sighed.

She strode over to Draco and waved her wand. Immediately his robe grew back to its full length.

The remainder of the class was just as miserable. Professor McGonagall gave a confusing lecture, using a lot of words that no eleven year old could possibly know, while Draco fumed alternately about how rudely he’d been treated and why Theodore hadn’t bothered to wake any of the other boys up.

A pair of girls, Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis, arrived about twenty minutes later and Crabbe came in shortly after that. None of them had to endure the same lecture that Draco had been given, which struck Draco as more than a bit unfair. On the other hand, they did have books and full robes.

 

*

 

The rest of the morning was taken up with a Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, in which Professor Quirrell, a nervous man whose head was wrapped in a purple turban so large that it looked like it might cause him to tilt over, stuttered his way through a list of dangerous creatures they should really just try to avoid. During class a steady stream of first-year Slytherins found their way up from the common room so that when it was time for lunch in the Great Hall, everybody was together at the Slytherin table.

After eating, they found their way to the greenhouses where they had their first Herbology lesson. Draco was happy to have Greg and Crabbe to sit with in class, especially because Crabbe had brought all the books.

When lessons finally came to an end at mid-afternoon the first-year Slytherins were either in the mood to celebrate or sleep. It had been a busy and confusing day, and just getting through it was an accomplishment. Plus, they had learned a lot, though mostly about things that had nothing to do with the school subjects.

Partly just to get some time to himself, Draco made his way out of the front entrance of the school. He might have been the only student at Hogwarts to have grown up on an estate with miles of paths through multiple well-kept gardens, but even he was impressed by the Hogwarts’ grounds. They seemed to include a little bit of everything. There were rolling hills with rocky outcrops sloping down to a broad meadow. Scattered here and there were patches of trees and bushes, some of which were offering tempting red or purple berries. As well, there were a few buildings including greenhouses and the gamekeeper’s hut, itself surrounded by vegetable gardens. Not far away was the thick dark forest that Professor Dumbledore had warned them to stay out of, and in the middle of it all was a large blue-grey lake fed by a twisting stream.

The sun was shining brightly, daring people to try to resist the urge to find a grassy spot to flop down on. Already quite a few students had given in and were lying here and there, some in the open meadow, some leaning against the scattered trees. It was under one of these trees, whose leaves were already starting to turn yellow, that Draco eventually sat. His mother frequently warned him about the dangers of too much sun for someone with his pale complexion, so Draco usually stayed in the shade.

Not far away, sitting on the grass, was a girl with her nose in a book. Her lips were moving as she read along. Every now and then she would absentmindedly wave the wand that she held in her right hand.

Draco watched her practicing her spell work for a while, wondering what sort of person would feel like studying right after her first day of classes. From where he sat he could not see her face but something about the piles of brown hair on her head looked familiar. After a minute it clicked. She was the girl from the Hogwarts Express who had told them they were coming into Hogsmeade Station just before she slipped into Potter’s carriage.

Draco opened his mouth to say something witty, but at that same moment the girl looked up and met his eye. He froze, with his mouth wide open. About a half-second later a large golden apple smacked him square on the top of the head.

“Ow!”

“Oh, I’m sorry!”

Draco looked up just to make sure nothing else was falling in his direction.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Draco answered, though he would have said that even if he wasn’t. He picked up the apple, checked it over for bruises, and then took a big bite of it. “Fruit trees aren’t usually that aggressive. By the way, what are you sorry for?”

The girl talked very fast. “It’s my fault the apple fell on you. I was just practicing a Separation Spell. I was so busy reading my book I hadn’t noticed you sit down there. I really am awfully sorry.”

“Then why are you smiling?” asked Draco, since the girl really didn’t look ‘awfully sorry.’

“Oh! I’m sorry about that too. But, well… it’s just that you did look rather comical sitting there with your mouth open. Why was it open anyway? Were you trying to catch bugs?”

“I wasn’t trying to catch bugs! I was just about to say hello when you attacked me,” answered Draco.

“Well, go ahead.”

“What?”

“Go ahead and say hello.”

“I’m not sure I want to now,” said Draco.

“All right. Then I guess it’s up to me. Hello, I’m Hermione Granger.”

Draco got up and formally offered his hand which Hermione shook with mock seriousness.

“I am very pleased… no, scrub that… I’m a tiny bit pleased to meet you, Hermione Granger. I am Draco Malfoy.”

“Draco?” said Hermione. “Like in the school motto, Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus?”

“Is that what it is? I saw it written on the wall last night but I didn’t know it was the school motto. You’d think my parents would have mentioned that to me. Do you know what it means?”

“Actually, yes I do. I read about it in _Hogwarts, A History_. It means ‘Never Tickle a Sleeping Dragon.’ The original motto was ‘Striving for Excellence,’ but it was changed after a dragon ate the third Headmaster.”

“Interesting,” said Draco, not really sure if Hermione was teasing him or not. “And what about you? How do you spell your name anyway?”

“Guess,” said Hermione.

Draco leaned back. After staring up at the apple tree for a few seconds he tried, “H - E - R - M - Y - O - N - E - E.”

“Close, change the Y to an I and drop the last E and you’d have it.”

“That’s different. Where’d you get a name like that?”

“Well, I already know that your name means dragon, so you’ll just have to figure out what my name means on your own. I’ll check back here next Monday to see if you’ve done your homework, but for now I’ve got to go to the library to sign out some extra readings.”

Hermione packed up her bag and got up to go. Draco stood and formally stretched out his hand. Hermione giggled once, then shook it. With another quick nod, she was off.

Draco sat back down under the apple tree. The warm sun that had been tempting people to doze on the grass had moved down the sky and a chill crept into the air hinting that fall was not far away. By the time Draco left, one of the last students to trickle back inside the castle, fog was starting to form under the trees of the forest. Taking his time over dinner he was also one of the last to leave the Great Hall. This unfortunately meant that there were no familiar faces around to ask for directions to the Slytherin common room. He didn’t remember much from the trip down last night but he knew that it was in one of the lowest parts of the castle so it made sense to just keep going down until he recognized something. One thing working in his favour was that the stairwells in the dungeons were solid stone and generally stayed in place unlike the ones in the upper floors that switched position whenever they felt like it. The Slytherins had learned this annoying fact while trying to find their way from Transfiguration to their Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson that morning.

Draco was plodding down a very dark corridor that he was sure he’d never been in before when Pansy and Blaise came towards him.

With a feeling of relief Draco quickly asked, “Do you know the way to the common room?”

Blaise snapped back, “Do you think we’d still be wandering around here if we did? All I know is I don’t think it’s down the way you’re going.”

“I’m starting to think it isn’t anywhere, that they’ve just blocked it off as a joke,” said Pansy Parkinson, a smile on her face, but a look of frustration in her eyes.

The deeper Draco went into the castle the more first-year Slytherins he found and each told the same story, that they’d been wandering around the dungeons for hours trying to find the common room. Some claimed that they thought they’d found the right spot but nothing happened when they gave the password.

About forty-five minutes later, Draco was feeling much the same as everyone else, tired and frustrated. At least he’d found some company. He was sitting with Greg and Crabbe underneath a painting of some happily dancing sheep who showed no interest in the boys’ dilemma.

“Here’s an idea, mates. Why don’t we head back up into the castle? If we get in trouble for wandering the halls the teachers will have to send us to our common room, won’t they?” Crabbe suggested.

They were still mulling Crabbe’s idea over when Dianna came around the corner and saw them all sitting there.

“Any luck?” asked Crabbe, just as he’d asked everyone who’d come by.

“Well, I think I found the spot, but it’s not opening,” Dianna answered in her quiet voice.

“Is it far?”

“No, just back that way about two minutes.”

Crabbe, Greg, and Draco followed Dianna back down the way she’d come. It did look vaguely familiar, but whether that was because they had been here last night or simply repeatedly passed through it today, it was impossible to tell. Blaise was there along with Daphne and Tracey, the two girls who had come into Transfiguration together. The girls were wandering along the hall yelling ‘dragon’ every now and then.

“Look, obviously the password is not dragon, otherwise it would have opened by now,” Blaise complained, pushing hard against the wall anyway.

“Unless we’re in the wrong place,” answered Daphne, a frown covering her freckled face.

“No, I’m sure this is it.”

Draco stepped forward and spoke loudly, “Knot Dragon.”

A hole instantly appeared in the wall and a burst of sound and light emanated from the room beyond. Stepping inside, the first-years came face to face with a large group of older Slytherins. Most were grinning and clapping, a few were laughing and pointing.

“Finally!” called out a tall girl wearing a red beret and matching scarf. “I thought you guys were going to be at it all day.”

“That’s not fair,” Blaise whined. “Why’d it open for him? We’ve been yelling ‘dragon’ at that wall for the last half an hour.”

“But the new password this week was **Knot Dragon** ,” answered Draco.

“But… but I just said that. I just said, ‘ _obviously the password is **Not Dragon**_ ’ a minute ago.”

“Yes, but that’s with an N. The password is knot with a K, like a knot you tie in a rope.”

“But that sounds exactly the same!”

“Maybe the wall knows the difference,” said Draco with a shrug.

But they couldn’t argue any more because they were being swept into the throng and having mugs of something yellowish and bubbly shoved into their hands.

A few of the older students were sent to find the first-years still wandering around the halls while most of those that stayed behind were congratulating Draco on being the one to finally get back into the common room.

“How’d you manage it?” a burly boy named Montague shouted even though he was only a few inches away from Draco. He seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes focused.

“Darren told us that the new password was posted on Sundays and yesterday was Sunday so I checked the noticeboard. And finding my way back to the right spot in the hall wasn’t that hard either. In fact I spent some time on the grounds outside after class so if I’d wanted to I could have gotten here much sooner.”

The lie had been an easy one. It was really dumb luck that he’d gotten back inside. He had just happened across the notice telling him about the password change and it had been Dianna who had led him to the proper spot, but Draco liked the attention and the outpourings of congratulations. After spending much of his life having his shortcomings pointed out by his father, it felt good to be thought of as the cleverest in the class.

With a wink, Darren told him that the winners of the annual Slytherin challenge to find the common room almost always went on to be Prefects. Draco tried to wink back but he’d never been very good at it and so he just kind of squished up the left side of his face.

For the second night in a row the Slytherin common room became the site of a party. Most of the food seemed to be leftovers from the night before but spirits were high anyway. The first-years were relieved to finally be back and the older students were eager to tell about what had happened to them when they were first years,

“Do you remember when Ponce was sure he had the right spot and was trying to drill through the wall?” laughed Evangeline Stout, a fourth-year girl.

“I still don’t know where he found that drill! But at least he did have the right spot. Not like that Bulstrode girl I just found. She was busy trying to push her way into the third-floor corridor that Dumbledore told us to stay out of. Lucky it was locked.”

“That’s too bad. I was kind of curious what kind of ‘horrible death’ was waiting in there.”

The chatter went on for many hours while the food slowly disappeared. Draco was explaining how good he was at flying to some of the members of last year’s Slytherin Quidditch team when he realized that almost everyone had gone off to their dormitories, including all of the other first-years.

Grabbing one last cupcake, Draco made his way through the doorway he shared with Blaise, Theodore, Greg and Crabbe and found the other four boys down there, sitting in the semi-dark. The door was still open, letting a little bit of light down the stairs, but not enough to allow them to see much.

Being locked out of the common room for hours and now being stuck with a dormitory that they still had no idea how to light had clearly put them in a foul mood.

“I think we should go knock a few heads around,” Greg was grumbling as Draco came in to join them.

“No doubt,” said Theodore with a foul sneer. “I wouldn’t mind having a go at some of those jerks. Let’s see how funny they think it is when we lop off a finger or two.”

“Hey, that’s a bit excessive don’t you think?” cut in Crabbe who alone of the four seemed to be taking things cheerfully. “Besides, our worries are over, mates! Here comes our leader. He’ll figure out how to get the lights on in this place.”

“Our leader?” thought Draco. He didn’t know where that had come from but he couldn’t help smiling a little.

The boys were sitting in the central part of the dorm, crouched around the smooth glass circle on the floor. If anything could possibly be a light, this was it.

Draco could feel the other four boys staring at him but he had no idea what to do. He pulled out his hawthorn wand, just to give his hands something to do. Unfortunately this just seemed to increase the other boys’ anticipation as they watched him even more closely, wondering what spell (though he hadn’t actually learned any yet) he was going to cast. As awkward seconds passed Draco reached out and lamely poked the circle with his wand. He was caught completely by surprise when the glass immediately began to glow with a violet-coloured light.

“I knew it. You’re two for two, mate,” Crabbe slapped Draco on the back.

“How’d you do that?” asked Blaise.

“I just touched it with my wand,” admitted Draco.

Crabbe slapped his forehead, “I can’t believe we didn’t even think of trying that.”

“Not much light is it?” grumbled Greg.

Draco touched it again and it turned a bright whitish-yellow, illuminating the whole room. One more tap and it turned black again.

Soon everyone was playing with the glass like it was a new toy they’d just unwrapped at Christmas. As far as they could tell, all they could do was switch it between three settings. One setting seemed to be ‘off,’ giving no illumination at all. Another setting was obviously ‘on,’ with a bright steady light – although having the light coming up from the floor instead of down from above took a bit of getting used to. The third setting puzzled them for a while. It didn’t give off much light and as they played with it, it seemed to give off less and less. Finally an idea struck Crabbe.

“It’s like the ceiling in the Great Hall! This is like a window to the outside. See, this is just clear sky. It’s getting darker because the sun has gone down.”

“I think you’re right,” said Blaise poking his finger at it. “That looks like a star.”

“That’ll be handy. We’ll know what the weather is like even before we leave the dorm in the morning.”

They turned the light back on to its brightest setting and finally got to properly explore their own bedrooms. They were happy to discover that each room not only contained a bed and a few shelves, but also a miniature version of the glass circle, set on the wall instead of on the floor. With a tap of their wands, the boys could light up their own room or give themselves a magical little window to the outside world.

Draco sorted through his belongings, discovering that his suitcase had eaten some socks, some parchment, two robes, and his cauldron. One thing still in good shape was the present he’d gotten from his mother. In all the excitement of the last two days Draco had forgotten about it, but now that he’d found it again he couldn’t wait to rip it open.

When the last bits of paper sat on the floor, all that was left was a very small wad of crumpled fabric. He carefully unfolded it. It was circular in shape, about two feet across. But when he was finished examining it he couldn’t tell what, if anything, it did. There was no writing on it or any indication of what it was for. Draco played with it for a while but didn’t come up with any new ideas. Vowing to send an owl to his mother requesting further information as soon as possible, he set the present on the floor and pulled out _A Beginners’ Guide to Transfiguration_. Draco started reading the first chapter.


	7. No One Ever Looks Up

When Draco woke the next morning his light was on and his book was still open to page one. As he lifted his head he realized he’d been drooling slightly on his Transfiguration text, but at least he’d woken early enough to get ready for classes and go to breakfast with the rest of the school.

During the meal, dozens of owls bringing the morning post came pouring into the Great Hall, filling the room with echoing wing beats. Draco’s new eagle owl, Tasmin, had obviously found its own way to Hogwarts because it soared through the open windows, circled once, then clattered on to the Slytherin table, its talons scraping lightly on the wood. The letter Tasmin carried had come all the way from the south of Britain and was damp and disheveled from spending an extra day tied onto the owl’s leg, as Draco hadn’t made it to breakfast the day before. Luckily the letter didn’t seem to be terribly important. It was just a quick note from Lucius Malfoy saying that he hoped the trip had gone smoothly and asking Draco to write back once he was settled.

“Nice bird, mate,” said Crabbe as he plopped himself down on an empty seat.

“Thanks,” responded Draco, crumpling the note up and stuffing it in a pocket.

“Think Greg will make it to Transfiguration this morning?”

“It might be better for him if he doesn’t. A class with McGonagall isn’t exactly the best way to start the day, is it?”

Looking at Tasmin, who was taking little darting bites of ham now that the job of delivering the post was done, it struck Draco that McGonagall looked and acted a lot like an angry owl. Maybe she had been one before she learned transfiguration.

The bird jumped off the table and flew out of the room, leaving Draco wondering where exactly the owl was going.

As it turned out, Greg did make it to class that morning, but only just. Now that they knew their way around a bit, all the Slytherins got to class on time, but that didn’t seem to improve McGonagall’s mood. Instead she seemed to relish tossing out “review” questions about things they obviously hadn’t learned yet. Strangely, she seemed to call on Draco a lot more often than on the other students and seemed especially spiteful if he didn’t know the answer, even though none of the other students did much better.

“So confidant you still haven’t bothered to read the textbook, Malfoy? You must be most impressed with yourself.”

Luckily the rest of the day wasn’t as bad as Transfiguration. They had their first Charms lesson with Professor Flitwick, who was much more cheerful than Professor McGonagall, and was so tiny that some students guessed he must have some leprechaun blood.

Professor Flitwick separated the class into groups of boys and girls and gave each a small tub of water and a toy sailboat. Their assignment was try to create a magical breeze that would push the boats along. In the first half of the lesson nobody managed to do any magic at all and the boats only moved when the students poked them with their wands (which Professor Flitwick said didn’t count).

In the second half, Crabbe did indeed do some magic, managing to grow Theodore Nott’s eyebrows an inch-and-a-half longer. This didn’t help to move the boat at all and it set the boys back another ten minutes as they argued over whether it had been an accident or not.

Blaise, half-bored and half-frustrated, whispered, “Let me show you a spell I can do. My mom taught me this one.”

He directed their attention to Pansy Parkinson’s red ‘Stop The Production of Pointless Buttons’ button which she now had clipped to the left shoulder of her robe.

Blaise waved his wand in short tight jerks, muttering under his breath. The button jiggled but didn’t move. “Hmmmm, tricky little charm.”

He kept up his efforts, whispering the spell too quietly for the others to clearly hear what he was saying. Suddenly the button unclipped and flew straight into Blaise’s outstretched hand without Pansy or any of the other girls noticing.

Crabbe silently mouthed, “That’s brilliant.”

After Charms the Slytherins had a break for lunch. Their timetables told them that Tuesday afternoon was “Nap Time.” This struck all of them as a bit childish, but there was some sense in it as in the evening they had their first Astronomy class which couldn’t start until it had gotten totally dark. At this time of year that meant that by the time that class was over and they’d made their way down from the top of the castle to the lowest dungeons it would be well after midnight.

Of course, none of the Slytherins did have naps and when it was finally time for Astronomy the now-tired students marched from their dormitories in the deepest dungeon of the castle to Hogwarts’ uppermost reaches, which were illuminated by lanterns instead of torches. They eventually gathered in their “classroom,” which turned out to be the wind-blasted and unexpectedly cold roof of the tallest tower. For a few minutes the students stood shivering, most wishing they’d dressed a little warmer, wondering where the teacher was. At one point the Bloody Baron emerged through the stone floor, leading some to believe that he would be teaching the class, but he just scowled when he saw the crowd on the tower and drifted away. Finally their instructor emerged on the roof. With a light nimble leap – surprising from someone who looked to be at least in her late 40s – she hopped up on the outer wall of the tower and balanced on the edge. She was tall and very thin, and looked pale even in the weak light.

Sweeping off her hat and bowing, the woman spoke in a low voice that somehow carried clearly across the roof. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Professor Sinistra, but you can call me Aurora. Tonight you will begin your exploration of the universe above. We shall start our lesson by taking notes on pages one to one hundred and eighty of your textbook. For homework you shall need to write a summary of those pages, which will be due first thing tomorrow morning.”

The students let out a chorus of groans.

Professor Sinistra chortled, “No, no, I’m just kidding. Actually we’re just going to lie on our backs and look at stars, and if I like you, maybe I’ll tell you a few stories. Now the first thing we need is for everybody to lie down.”

The students weren’t sure if this was another joke so they all started looking nervously at each other.

“No no, not like that, the other way. Your backs should be facing down and your nose up.”

Still nobody was moving. Draco could feel several eyes looking his way to see what he was going to do so he decided to take the lead and flopped down on his back.

“Well done. Five house points for finally following instructions.”

Greg and Crabbe grabbed spots on either side of Draco.

“Good job, mate. Five points for Slytherin just for that. Not a bad start, eh? I think that puts us in the lead for the House Cup already.”

Slowly the rest of the class lay down, each student trying to find a patch of tower roof. This proved especially difficult for Dianna who was easily the largest student there. But after some pushing, shuffling, and grumbling everybody finally seemed satisfied.

They stared up at the impressive sight over their heads. In the cool night air, with no city streetlights, the sky took on a milky glow of its own. Along with the familiar handful of bright stars that they usually saw when they looked up at the night sky – now dazzlingly bright – were hundreds, even thousands, of others stretching from horizon to horizon.

Aurora Sinistra carefully stepped through the crowd of students and found a spot to lie down as well, causing another ripple of jostling.

The professor said nothing for several minutes, just letting the students study the stars. With a quiet voice she pointed out the obvious. “We so rarely notice what is above our heads. If you don’t believe me, try this. Play a simple game of Hide and Destroy and find some way of hiding up high. Wedge yourself over a doorway or climb a tree. The person looking for you will tear everything apart down below but will never bother taking a glance up. You can be in clear view and they won’t even notice. It’s the same with the night sky. Sure, we take a peek at the full moon once in a while, but over our head every night are comets, planets, and falling stars that we never see. Well, I do, but I get paid for it so it doesn’t count. But most people don’t.”

Almost on cue a falling star suddenly arced directly overhead, causing a small chorus of “Oooh look” and “Did you see that?”

“Professor Sinistra,” asked Tracey Davis, a lanky girl who was shivering while she lay on the cold grey stone of the tower roof, “does wishing on falling stars ever work?”

“Call me Aurora,” said the professor. “In answer to your question, I’m not sure. Why don’t we all make a wish and next class we’ll take a survey about how many came true? That seems like a good scientific test.”

After giving everyone some time to make a wish, the professor pulled out her wand and intoned, “Heisenstoof.”

Immediately the air on the roof warmed. The group released a collective happy sigh.

Aurora Sinistra asked, “How many of you wished to be warmer?” A chorus of giggles followed when several hands stretched towards the sky.

“I’m glad the star is working so fast for you, but we can’t always count on wishes so in the future just remember to dress warmer for our lessons. I know it seems foolish to have a class on top of the castle in the middle of the night, but what can we do? It’s the only way to study the stars. I don’t like to warm the roof unless it’s really freezing because the Warming Spell interferes with how clear the sky looks, but it should be okay for today. So tell me, does anybody know the names of any of the stars or constellations?”

They spent the rest of the class just pointing out things in the sky. It was a lot of fun – it felt more like they were just staying up really late with friends than having a lesson. Draco didn’t know the names of any of the stars but he was the only one who knew that the fast moving blinking one was actually an aeroplane.

 

*

 

The next couple of days went by in a blur. Between finding classes, taking classes and doing homework for classes there didn’t seem to be much time to do other things. Draco did manage to build up enough courage to write a letter to his father about being placed in Slytherin, which would please him, and about the things which had been eaten by the suitcase, which would not. The cost of replacing the school supplies would mean nothing to his father, but he wouldn’t be happy about his son’s irresponsibility.

By the time Friday arrived, everyone was looking forward to a couple of days off. It was also a relief to think that after Friday’s Potion class there wouldn’t be any more new classrooms to find.

There was already a crowd of Gryffindors waiting outside the dark entrance to Professor Snape’s dungeon classroom when the Slytherins arrived. Greg instinctively clutched at his hand where the rat had bitten him on the train.

“We don’t have class with them, do we?” Crabbe complained.

“Looks like it,” sighed Pansy, somehow managing to look unhappy while smiling.

Draco wasn’t thrilled to see Weasley and Potter slouched against the wall, but he was happy to see Hermione – who gave him a quick half-smile – amongst the waiting students.

The door to the dungeon opened and a rush of cold air rolled into the hallway. Professor Snape, his dark eyes looking piercingly at each of the waiting students, waved them inside. The sallow-skinned teacher nodded a greeting to several of the Slytherins, including Draco, as if he knew them already. He didn’t do the same for any of the Gryffindors. Draco tried to remember if Professor Snape had ever visited Malfoy Manor and guessed that he probably had.

The smell of the classroom was a bit unsettling as from the walls and tables oozed the leftover fumes of thousands of past experiments. As the students wrinkled their noses and exchanged looks, Professor Snape paced to the front of the room and an ominous silence fell. After going through the register and making sure that all the expected students were present, he began a speech. He probably used it every year for his new classes, but it was fascinating anyway. He told them about the beauty of softly simmering cauldrons with shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind and ensnaring the senses. He told them that he could teach them how to bottle fame, brew glory and even stopper death.

The room was respectfully quiet – most people were obviously impressed by Snape’s description of what they would be learning in Potions. The only two who didn’t seem interested were Potter and Weasley who were rolling their eyes, sniggering, and whispering to each other.

Professor Snape rounded on the two boys.

“Potter,” he said slowly, lingering over the name. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Potter either didn’t know or he was choosing not to answer. Instead he just stared back at Professor Snape with his ever present smirk.

Hermione’s hand went up though Professor Snape seemed to take no notice.

Finally Potter spoke, “I don’t know,” he drawled, pausing before adding a sarcastic, “sir.”

“Let’s try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

Potter’s face turned slightly pink. Draco was starting to quite enjoy Potions class.

“What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

By this time half the class had their hands up, but Potter just quipped, “I don’t know. I think Hermione does, though, why don’t you try her?” This brought a chorus of laughter from most of the Gryffindors, although Hermione herself looked disapproving.

“Asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant.”

Potter pulled out a quill and parchment and began writing.

Snape asked, “Well? Why aren’t you all copying that down?”

There was an awkward silence, and then a couple of hands tentatively went up.

Professor Snape called on Pansy Parkinson who nervously answered, “Well, Sir, those facts are all in chapter one of _Magical Drafts and Potions_ so we knew we didn’t need to write it down.” This caused Potter to somehow go an even deeper shade of red.

“Good, Miss Parkinson. Very good,” said Professor Snape, nodding. “However you will need to write this down,” he added as he indicated some instructions on the board at the front of the class.

There was a sudden rummaging for quills and parchment. Over the noise, Professor Snape said, “And a point will be taken from Gryffindor house for your cheek, Potter.”

They were put into pairs and asked to brew a potion meant to cure boils. Draco ended up working with Blaise, which was a relief, as his father still hadn’t sent him a replacement cauldron, and Blaise had brought his. Although the Professor called it a simple potion, it looked surprisingly complicated. It involved half-a-dozen ingredients including snake fang and jellied yak’s milk. Each ingredient needed to be cut, cooked, stirred and mixed at precise temperatures and times. To add to the challenge several of the steps had to be done simultaneously. But to Draco it didn’t seem like work at all. Many of the classes this week had been interesting. Astronomy had been kind of fun. But in Potions Draco was so focused on the lesson that he actually lost track of time. The delicate precision with which the potion had to be prepared took all his concentration. He actually gave a startled jump when Professor Snape leaned over and drew the attention of the class to the proper way Draco was stewing his horned slugs. No one took much notice, though, because at that moment a Gryffindor’s concoction managed to melt its way through a cauldron. Draco, who was in the final stages of his work, tried his best to ignore the chaos that erupted as the mixture, giving off noxious fumes, went on to destroy most of a table and began eating away at the floor.

When he was finally done and had a chance to sit back while Blaise carefully ladled out their finished product into a beaker, Draco was astonished to discover that two hours had passed. Even more surprisingly, it appeared that many students barely seemed to have started their potions.

Draco brought the beaker to the front of the class and handed the mixture in.

“Ahhh, first ones done, Mr Malfoy,” said Professor Snape who was regarding the still-smoking hole in the floor with an air of quiet resentment.

“Here’s mine, Professor,” said Hermione Granger, thrusting her work forward a moment later.

“Thank you, Miss Granger,” said the Potions Master, taking the second beaker and inspecting the students’ work.

Both potions looked a similar yellowish-brown colour. Professor Snape put them down as his eyes swept the room. Heaving a little sigh, he observed, “I am doubtful that many more will complete a potion even vaguely resembling the hoped for outcome but I suppose we must give them the full time to try. Since you are done early I suggest you spend the remaining time helping your friends or reading ahead.”

“That wasn’t so bad! I expected it to be much harder,” whispered Hermione as they headed back to their tables.

Draco nodded but before he could say anything Hermione asked, “Have you found out what my name means yet?”

“Er… maybe.”

“I’ll assume that’s a no,” she smiled, “but at least you have until Monday to figure it out. I’d suggest the library if you haven’t tried there already.”

“Oh right, Hogwarts has a library! I think I’d heard there was one here.”

She smiled again. Draco suddenly felt embarrassed and hoped she assumed he was joking.

“See you,” she whispered, sliding back into her chair amongst the Gryffindors.

It was satisfying to note that both Weasley and Potter seemed to be nowhere close to completing their Boil Removal potion.

Draco spent a few minutes trying to help Crabbe and Greg but he just seemed to make them nervous.

“Crikey, give us a little room here,” snapped Crabbe as he glanced nervously at his watch.

Draco opened his copy of _Magical Drafts and Potions_ and began flipping through it, coming to rest at a page which explained how to increase the potency of a normal Shrinking potion. He was soon drawn in again, quietly mixing the potion in his mind, until he was distracted by the sounds of the class leaving.

Professor Snape was standing next to him. “Yes indeed, the lesson is over, Mister Malfoy. You are free to go.”

After an exhausting week, the last thing Draco expected to be doing was voluntarily lingering after his final class. But instead of grabbing his pack and running out, he pointed to his book and asked, “What is Grundlewood, professor? This potion calls for powdered root of Grundlewood.”

Professor Snape inspected him for a moment, deciding whether Draco really wanted to know or was merely trying to impress a teacher by feigning interest. Draco felt an odd pang in his head – not like a headache, just an odd jolt he’d never felt before. It passed quickly, though for a few seconds it was hard to focus on Professor Snape’s face.

“Grundlewood is an extremely rare tree found only in marshes and then usually only in those occupied by magical creatures like will-o-wisps and hinkypunks. Luckily Hogwarts has a few Grundlewoods in the swamp at the far end of the grounds. They are actually very useful for a variety of potions, Draconius.”

“You can call me Draco. Everyone does.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that you prefer your nickname. Why is that?”

“I don’t know. It’s just what I’ve been called all my life. Draconius just seems a bit long, a bit too fancy, I guess.”

“Understandable, I suppose. When I was at Hogwarts I was fond of the nickname ‘Sev,’ though not many people used it.”

“You went to Hogwarts too?”

“Certainly,” nodded Professor Snape, a raised eyebrow showing that he was surprised that Draco didn’t already know this. “Didn’t your father tell you? He was Slytherin Prefect when I first came to school.”

“So that would make you about four years younger than my father.”

“Yes I believe so. Still, I’m old enough to prefer being called Severus now. I find that it adds a certain ‘je ne c’est quoi’, though I don’t know what it is.” He flashed a smile (though the muscles in his face didn’t look like they were used to it) as if he’d just said something quite clever. The smile disappeared just as quickly as it had come and he added with a disappointed tone, “Let me guess. You don’t speak French.”

As Draco shook his head Professor Snape muttered, “Well that’s not important. We’ll stick to using ‘Draco’ if you prefer. Although if you ever apply for a job at Hogwarts you might want to use your full name. Headmaster Dumbledore seems to have a fondness for teachers whose names end in ‘us.’ He hired me, to teach Potions, Filius for Charms, and now Quirinus Quirrell to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. Maybe you should drop off an application – I believe the Care of Magical Creatures teacher, Professor Kettleburn, is planning on retiring in a year or two.”

“Thanks Professor,” Draco chuckled, gathering his books together. “Well, I guess I should be going.”

“As you wish, Mr Malfoy, but don’t feel the need to rush off. Potions always requires a lot of cleaning up so I’m usually here for a while at the end of class anyway. You’re welcome to stay and practice your potions if you like.”

The invitation sounded nice. “I would, but I have a lot of catching up to do. I still haven’t fully unpacked, I need to write a letter to my mother, and I’ve heard there’s a library here. I should probably at least figure out where that is, but thanks, Professor. I’m sure I’ll take you up on that another time. I didn’t expect it but I actually found this class quite fun. At the start of the week I expected that Potions would be my least favourite class and that Defense Against Dark Arts would be my favourite, but I think it’s probably the other way around. Well, actually, Transfiguration is probably the worst but that’s only because of McGon…”

Draco’s voice trailed off. He had been enjoying his conversation so much that he hadn’t stopped to think about what he was saying, but he probably shouldn’t be complaining about his teachers to other teachers. However, Professor Snape showed no sign of being upset. He just snorted and smiled.

“You’re certainly not the first Slytherin to feel that way. It is usually Gryffindor that provides us with the stiffest competition for the House Cup and as head of Gryffindor House I think Professor McGonagall sometimes gets a bit drawn into the competition herself. It’s a pity really. You would think she’d get used to losing to us. Of course it’s not really fair…”

“Fair?”

“Yes. I mean the Sorting Hat puts those that are most cunning and most competitive into Slytherin House, so it is no surprise that Slytherins usually win.”

“But Gryffindors are supposed to be the bravest. That’s got to count for something.” Draco couldn’t believe he was actually defending the Gryffindors.

Professor Snape gave a short derisive laugh. “Brave? Courage is only courage if one stands and faces that which one finds terrifying. In my experience most Gryffindors do risky things because they are too foolish to realize their peril. And yes, if in competition one hurls oneself at danger without a thought to the risks or to the improbability of success then sometimes, usually through dumb luck, one is successful.”

Professor Snape pulled out his wand and with some casual flicks began to clean up the mess left behind by the class. “Anyway, off you go Draco. Start your weekend.”


	8. Falling Awake

They nicknamed their dormitory the “Cave.” Crabbe had invented the term and it quickly stuck.  It certainly looked like a cave, even containing small stalactites hanging from the ceiling.  Greg and Blaise guessed that the Cave had been there before Hogwarts was built and that it had just been found during construction.  The others thought that it had probably been fashioned by magic just to look that way.

The origin of the Cave was just one of many topics discussed on Sunday night. The boys had already developed a tradition – if something that has been happening for only a week could be called a tradition – of staying up late talking.  Instead of sitting around the table in the center of the Cave, each boy went off to his own alcove and talked loudly enough for everybody to hear.

Tonight’s conversation moved on to the topic of what to call the alcoves. Lots of names had been tossed around, but none had proven popular.

“What about ‘den’?” suggested a sincere-sounding Greg. “You know, like a bear’s den, in a cave.”

This caught everybody off guard because even though they hadn’t known him very long, the boys had noticed that Greg didn’t come up with a lot of good ideas, but this immediately seemed like a very good idea.

“Quite right, mate,” Crabbe immediately piped up, and the others soon joined in voicing their support.

From there the discussion wandered off towards what to name other things like the bathroom or the female Slytherins but the invention of “den” would prove to be the highlight of the night.

Predictably, as the evening progressed people spoke more sporadically. Theodore Nott, who had been dubbed Theo, Ted, Teddy and Nott by various people (and answered to all of them), nodded off first.  He seemed to have a knack for falling asleep quickly.  Greg followed, announcing the transition with rumbling snores.  His snores led to a handful of comments by the others about how they were looking forward to learning some spells to use on Greg when he did this, and then the conversation dried up completely.

Draco was happy to let silence fall, not because he didn’t enjoy the late-night discussions, but because he was hoping to get to sleep early for a change. Transfiguration was first thing in the morning again, and he wanted to avoid the mess-ups of the previous week.  He even left his window set to ‘outside,’ hoping that the morning light would wake him extra early and give him some time to finally read some of the textbook.  Maybe he could even be first to arrive to class.  Hopefully that would help to counter some of the dislike McGonagall had developed for him in the first two classes.

 

*

 

When Draco’s eyes fluttered open he was momentary terrified, sure that he’d somehow overslept and had missed the start of class again. But after realizing that the castle was still quiet except for Greg’s steady rumble, he relaxed, enjoying the warmth and softness of the bed and the feeling that he was in no rush to prepare for class.

Flipping the thick dark blankets off, Draco swung out of bed, planting his bare feet on the cold stone floor. Standing and rubbing his sleep-filled eyes, he took a step towards the washroom and brought his right foot down smack in the middle of his mother’s present which was still lying on the floor where it had been dropped almost a week earlier.  But instead of crushing or ripping the thin material, Draco’s foot passed right through it.  But his foot didn’t stop there – it then mysteriously passed right through the cave floor.  This of course came as quite a surprise to the rest of his body which followed quickly behind, plunging through a hole that almost certainly hadn’t been there before.  Draco could do nothing but flail his arms around uselessly as he fell.  The pale light of his den quickly disappeared and was replaced by blackness and racing air.  Seconds later, although it seemed much longer, he plunged into icy cold water. 

It took a few moments for panic to subside and for Draco to remember that he knew how to swim, but soon enough he was treading water and trying to figure out where he was and what had happened. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, he soon got the answer to the first question.  He was in the cavern underneath the castle where the boats had landed on his first night at Hogwarts.  The answer to the second question was less obvious.  Other than knowing that magic must somehow have been involved, Draco had no idea how he had suddenly plunged out of the Slytherin dormitories and into this lake.

Draco began the long trip back to his room by dog-paddling to the shore, where he hauled himself, along with a half-a-dozen greenish weeds, out of the water with a wet slop. Even though it was still September, it was cold at this time of the morning, so he couldn’t help shivering as he tramped back up the slick steps in his soaked pajamas.  Luckily the entrance to the castle had already been unlocked for the morning.  Leaving a trail of wet footprints from the front door all the way to the dungeon, Draco pointedly ignored the stares and questions of everyone he passed by.  He slipped through the common room door as it opened to let out two fourth years who appeared to be already on their way to class.

Unsurprisingly, Transfiguration was a disaster yet again. By the time he’d hurriedly dried off, changed his clothes, and sprinted up to class, Professor McGonagall had already given out today’s instructions and distributed the crayons that students were supposed to change from green to white.

What had already begun as another bad Monday didn’t improve much. McGonagall was in her usual ill-tempered mood, which was made worse by Draco’s late appearance, and worse still when Blaise and Greg came in together ten minutes later still.  Many, including Draco, had missed breakfast and so were also feeling a bit grouchy as well, making for a lot of muttering and arguments but very little progress on the day’s assignment.  In fact, all Draco managed to do was melt his crayon.  Crabbe claimed that he had changed his to white and then back to green again, although no one really believed him.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was certainly more bearable. Professor Quirrell gave them a lesson about how to outrun zombies, something that seemed remarkably easy to do, at least in the short term.  However most of the Slytherins were still grouchy at lunch.

Daphne Greengrass, cleaning her glasses with her robes so stridently that it looked like she might snap them in two, grumbled angrily, “Why do we have to start the week with _her_?”

Everyone looked up to where McGonagall sat at the High Table, her nose wrinkled with distaste as she inspected her soup.

“Too right,” agreed Crabbe, squishing up his face in his best imitation of McGonagall.

Greg, busily piling salad on to his plate, just nodded in agreement.

Now that he’d finally gotten some food, Draco could think of something besides his stomach and what was filling his mind most of all was not the Slytherin-McGonagall feud, but a burning desire to find out why he had fallen through his floor this morning. Herbology seemed to take forever and when it finally ended Draco practically sprinted away.

“Wait up, mate,” Crabbe yelled, hurrying to stuff his blue and gold CCLL book into his pack.

“Sorry guys,” Draco called back, not wanting to take the time to explain. “Er, I’ve got a meeting with Professor, er, Professor…”  He muttered a final word that sounded a bit like “Mumblypoo” but didn’t pause to explain when Greg asked, “Professor who?”

Draco reached the apparently blank stretch of wall that was the common room entrance and boldly called out “Knot Dragon.”

When nothing happened he tried it a second time. Puzzled at the wall’s continuing lack of cooperation, he double-checked where he was and tried the password a third time.  With a sinking feeling he suddenly realized that it was Monday, which meant that the password had been changed.

Slumping down against the wall, Draco felt a little disheartened by the further realization that he, the student who’d won so many congratulations the previous week by being the only first-year to know the password, would soon be discovered stuck outside in the hallway. It also struck him as a little depressing that Crabbe and Greg were bound to show up in a few minutes and he would have to explain who Professor Mumblypoo was. 

Draco was glumly watching a trickle of water bead up on the damp wall when a third uncomfortable realization popped into his head. He’d agreed to meet Hermione on the grounds today. 

“At least I’m getting enough exercise,” he thought as he stood up and raced back out of the dungeons.

Heart pounding, he slumped against the apple tree and tried to catch his breath. He took a peek up to see if any apples were on their way down, and then closed his eyes.  After a couple of minutes of sitting on the grass in the warm sun, he was glad he had remembered the meeting.  It was a little cooler than the previous week but still quite pleasant, and having some quiet time after what seemed like another jam-packed day came as a relief.  Draco was just starting to feel drowsy when a voice cut in.  “Would you like a blanket and pillow?”

Draco’s mellow sleepiness was ripped away. “Hermione!  You startled me!”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“What does my name mean?”

“Er. I tried to look it up in the library, but I couldn’t find it,” Draco lied.  He didn’t really know why, but since he’d come to Hogwarts lies were coming more and more easily.

“Couldn’t find my name or couldn’t find the library?”

“Both. I mean neither.  I mean, your name.  I looked through a ton of books, but…”

“No you didn’t,” said Hermione, flopping down on the grass and poking at a dead looking dandelion with her wand, causing it to turn the brightest of yellows.

A sudden anger flared inside of Draco and he almost responded indignantly, “Are you calling me a liar?” but when he saw a teasing smile on Hermione’s face the anger evaporated just as quickly. He slumped down and, grinning wryly, admitted, “Okay, okay.  I never went to the library.  In fact, I don’t even know where it is.”

His voice rose as he continued, “In fact, I haven’t had a good week. I can’t keep up.  I’m only eleven years old and I’m already burnt out.  Finding my way to classes, doing homework, wandering around a monstrous castle with mischievous doors and shifting passages, dealing with carnivorous luggage, trying to remember ten thousand different people’s names, trying to get all my supplies, reading books, being hit by apples, getting lost, falling through mysterious holes, and landing in lakes.”  He ended in a wail and flung himself dramatically on the grass.

Hermione seemed unimpressed by his histrionics. “You’ve never been to the library?  How do you get your homework done?”

Draco just made a strangling sound and covered his face with his hands.

“Didn’t you have to do work in your old school?” Hermione asked pointedly.

“I’ve never really gone to school before,” answered Draco, not feeling embarrassed but feeling like maybe he should be.

“Well, what did you do with your time?”

“Nothing.” The truth in the answer surprised Draco. “Well, not absolutely nothing, I mean my dad was always giving me little lectures and setting me important tasks to do. Mostly it was about how to get other people to do stuff for me, not actually teaching me to do anything myself.”

Draco imitated his father’s voice. “Draco, today’s task will be to make sure the staff empty out the fireplace ash and clean my boots properly.  Draco, you idiot, what are my boots doing in the fireplace?  Why can’t you listen to the simplest instructions?  Good Lord, you’re denser than a turnip.”

“Was that an actual conversation?” Hermione’s cloak flapped in the light breeze.

Draco avoided the question. “That was about it for my education.  Besides that, I guess I spent a lot of time just sitting, looking at things, going for walks, you know, stuff like that.”

Hermione gave his foot a little kick and said, “I think the time for that is over and one thing you are definitely going to need to know while you’re here is where the library is, so follow me.”

Ten minutes later the pair were on the fourth-floor in the hallway outside Hogwarts Library. Hermione looked expectant, shuffling nervously from foot to foot, like she was wondering why Draco wasn’t rushing straight in and making himself at home now that he found himself at the entrance to the library.

Instead, Draco had decided to take advantage of the fact that he had a fairly knowledgeable and friendly guide for the first time since his arrival at the school. “Do you know where the aviary is?  You know, where the owls are kept?”

“Oh yes, although most people just call it the Owlery because, well because, it really only has owls, obviously,” said Hermione. After a disappointed glance into the library she again said, “Follow me,” and led Draco away.

After another ten minutes they found themselves climbing a very steep set of metal stairs to a circular stone room at the top of the West Tower. It was strangely quiet, despite the many owls positioned around the room.  Ranging in colour from brilliant white to matted brown, most were asleep on perches though from time to time one would wing its way through wide windows near the top of the room.

Draco and Hermione took only a few steps inside as the floor was covered with an unpleasant mixture of straw and feathers, along with bits and pieces of small animals that had recently spent time in the stomach of at least one of the birds.

A particularly large owl, with almost glowing orange eyes, noticed the pair of human intruders and swooped down to an empty perch next to them.

“Hi Tasmin,” smiled Draco, reaching out and scratching at the owl’s neck like it was a cat.

“Tasmin? Why did you call him that?”

It took a moment for Draco to understand the implications of Hermione’s question.

“Him?”

“Yes, why Tasmin? I mean, I don’t mind – it’s a nice name – but a bit unusual for a boy, isn’t it?”

“Erm, I’m pretty sure Tasmin is a girl?”

“Oh no. With female eagle owls the ear tufts hang down more.”

“But,” protested Draco, “look at, er, it’s size. Well it’s biggish, which is why they’re called eagle owls I guess, but I’ve seen much larger ones.  If she… it… was a boy… wouldn’t she be bigger?  Unless, do you think, she… or he I guess… is still just a baby?”

Hermione’s smile told Draco that he’d said something rather foolish.

In a slightly condescending voice she explained, “The females of the species are, by far, the larger. In fact, they’ve been known to carry away small deer.”

A tawny owl flew in through an open window and caused a brief shoving match as it settled in between a pair of barn owls.”

“A bit like the first-year Slytherin girls then?”

“What?”

 “Well, no offense, but have you seen them?  They’re huge, especially Dianna.  But Millicent isn’t much smaller.  It takes about two of us to make one of them – well maybe not Crabbe or Greg, but it would take two of me to make one of them.”

Hermione took a breath, ready to explain the difference in growth rates between boys and girls, but before she could speak Draco asked, “How do you know so much about owls anyway? Do your parents keep them?”

“Oh no! Until a couple of months ago they hadn’t even heard of wizards so of course we never kept any owls around the house.”

“Your parents are Muggles?” Draco stammered. “Are you a Muggle too?”  He didn’t know why this news surprised him.  He knew Muggle-borns came to Hogwarts, but he just assumed that they would stand out somehow, and Hermione didn’t.  If anything, she seemed more confident about the wizarding world than most.

Hermione didn’t notice his look of confusion and plowed on. “Yes I am.  So I didn’t really study them much before I found out about Hogwarts.  But once I learned how useful owls were I read a rather good book called _The Complete Owl Lore_.  Maybe you should look at it – it’s in the _library_.  It would be nice to have my own owl of course but they’re rather expensive, aren’t they?  I’ve just been using the school owls to send letters home.  There’s a tiny one, his name is Sonic.  I don’t think he’s here right now.  Anyone can use him, of course, but I sort of think of him as mine.”

“You’re not like what I imagined that a… a…” Draco was going to say ‘Mudblood’ but changed his mind at the last second, “…Gryffindor… would be like.”

“Really? What did you imagine Gryffindors would be like?”

“I hadn’t thought about it much at all before coming here, but as soon as the Sorting Ceremony began on our first night… well, you could see… I mean there they were shouting, trying to get as much attention as they could, being about as noisy and irritating as possible.”

The room darkened as the sun slipped behind a cloud outside. “Actually, Gryffindors aren’t so bad.  They’re certainly not irritating.”  Hermione shrugged, “Well, some of them are, I suppose, but most are quite nice.”

“When I was waiting for my turn I tried to guess what house the Sorting Hat would put different people in, just from how they looked and acted. For you I’d guessed Hufflepuff.”

“Really?” said Hermione, not sure if that was a compliment or an insult.

A ruffled brown owl, woken by their conversation, drifted sleepily down and landed next to Tasmin. It stared at them with big round eyes as if to say, “I really don’t want to help you out because I’d much rather be asleep.”  It thrust out its leg which had an indigo paper wrapped around it.

“I know you,” said Draco, lightly stroking the bird’s feathers and unfastening the note.

“I think my parents are still a bit nervous about trying to wrestle messages off the leg of an owl first thing in the morning. Is it for you?  Why didn’t you get it with the post at breakfast?”

“I kind of missed breakfast. A bit of a problem with a hole and a lake.”

“Yes, you mentioned you’d had some hole problems earlier.”

“Hey, it’s from my mother!” Draco beamed and waved the letter like it was a newly won medal.

Hermione gave the owl a tentative pat on the head. “I guess I should let you go then.  I’ve got loads of things to catch up with too.”

As she retreated from the room, carefully watching where she placed her feet, Draco called out casually, “Hermione, from Hermes, the Greek god of innovation and quick thinking.”

Hermione whirled. “You did look it up!  I thought you said you never went to the library?”

“I asked Professor Flitwick. I thought it would be a bit of a time saver.”

Hermione, speechless for once, just smiled, revealing her rather large front teeth, and left Draco with the owls.

 

*

 

It wasn’t until many hours later, some of which he spent being forced to do a silly dance before some older Slytherins would tell him the new common room password, that Draco finally had a chance to figure out what had happened to him that morning. As he suspected, it was his mother’s present that had caused the problem.  The thin sheet was lying innocently on the floor of his bedroom when he’d finally managed to get back into the dormitory.  Looking at it didn’t reveal anything unusual – it still just appeared to be nothing more than a piece of fabric.  Even looking through it, the floor seemed normal.  But when Draco grabbed one of his six pillows and pushed it towards the object, the pillow passed right through it, and then right through the floor as well.  When he tried pulling it up again, it wouldn’t budge.  Nor could he pull the fabric sideways once the pillow was stuck there.  All he could do, though it made him feel a bit guilty, was to let the pillow go and watch as it disappeared through the floor and, presumably, fell unceremoniously into the cold lake below.

Draco was happy he hadn’t tried putting his finger into the hole. He could imagine that once part of him was in, the rest of him would have to follow eventually and he didn’t much want to go through that again. 

He carefully folded his mother’s present up and put it away, covering it with a couple of books so that it wouldn’t accidentally unfold. Then he went back up to the common room where the rest of the first-years were.

“Close the door.”

“What?”

“Close the door,” repeated Greg, looking concerned despite the fact that he was lying comfortably on his back on a soft leather sofa. “I don’t want that cat getting in there.  You know I’m allergic.  Pansy, you should keep control of that thing.”

A black cat with a white chest and yellow eyes leaned against Draco’s leg and seemed a little disappointed when the door closed, but Pansy showed no interest in collecting her pet. She was busy watching a sixth-year girl named Sidney trying her best to get Pansy’s button back off of Blaise’s robe.

“Accio button!”

The button tugged lightly on the robe but otherwise remained firmly fixed on its spot. Blaise sat watching the fire smugly, enjoying the girls’ frustration.  Theodore sat a short distance away but it was impossible to tell if he was watching or daydreaming.

On the other side of the Slytherin common room Crabbe stood studying the noticeboard.

“Looks like the rumours were true. Flying class is going to start this week.”

Most of the students seemed happy at this news, even though it seemed that they would be again grouped with the Gryffindors for the class. Draco tried to look pleased too, although an unpleasant knot immediately began gnawing at his stomach.  He wished he hadn’t bragged about all the Quidditch matches that he hadn’t really played.  Maybe he should have claimed to have never ridden a broom before.  He’d overheard some chatter at the Gryffindor table a few days previously, and a lot of them, including Potter, were saying they’d never flown.  Several of the first year Slytherins had said the same.  Draco especially hoped that no one had really taken him seriously when he’d told them he could stand on his broom while flying.


	9. The Remembrall

“Can’t you keep it down a bit? This is supposed to be our nap time.”  Crabbe threw an orange which bounced off the door that Greg was propping up, leaving a squishy imprint.

“It’ll be done in a minute,” Greg grumbled, holding the door in place while a fifth-year that he’d just paid five Sickles set to work on it with her wand.

Greg wouldn’t explain why he was replacing the curtain to his den with a door (or where he’d actually found the door in the first place) except to say that he wanted a little more privacy.

“At least it’ll muffle out his snoring,” whispered Theodore to Blaise. The two of them had been playing cards at the small table in the dormitory until the mix of carpentry and sorcery going on in the background became too much of a distraction.  Now they were just watching while occasionally making what they thought were amusing comments.

 Draco, lying on his bed and doing his best to ignore the cacophony, put his quill down and blew lightly across the parchment to dry the ink before re-reading the letter he’d just written.

 

> _Dear Mother,_
> 
> _I’ve just read your letter for about the tenth time. I’m sorry too that you won’t be able to come and visit me at Hogwarts this term.  You will be home at Christmas though, right?  I’m only asking because in your letter you say that you “hope” to see me then._
> 
> _I’ve been put in Slytherin House, just like you and father were. I’m sharing a dormitory (we call it ‘The Cave’) with four other boys – Blaise Zabini, Vincent Crabbe, Theodore Nott, and Gregory Goyle.  I think you already know some of them._
> 
> _Thank you so much for the present you sent me. I must confess that it took me some time to figure out exactly what it was, but I’m pretty sure it’s a hole.  I first realized this quite by accident yesterday morning.  I fell quite a distance the first time I used it, but luckily there was a lake beneath me.  I haven’t told any of the other boys about it – I don’t know why.  Maybe I will later.  I just don’t feel like telling them right now.  Do you think I should tell them? I think you were right about keeping it a secret from Father – I doubt he would approve._
> 
> _The classes here are a lot of work but I’m enjoying them too. Well, I’m enjoying some more than others.  It’s only been a little more than a week so I’m sure things will change, but so far my favourite classes are Potions (that’s with Professor Snape who I think you know as well) and Astronomy (which seems more like a club than a class)._
> 
> _One thing that struck me as strange in the first week was how much of class time we spent just practicing spells.  Often we just divide into pairs and try out spells on each other.  It seemed like a waste of time putting two people together who don’t know how to do a spell and have them spend an hour or two just trying to do it.  I thought the teachers were just being lazy, not wanting to help people out or show them how to really do it (maybe there is a bit of that too, ha ha) but I realize now that practice is so important.  Sometimes it doesn’t seem like I’m learning a new spell, it seems like the magic was always inside me, like I’m just remembering how to do it.  The more I do it the more I can feel it flow through me and out.  I know that other things are important (like the way you flick your wand or the way you pronounce a word) but I’m really surprised how much is just in your head.  Nothing happens until you think it will.  Father said I’d probably never be a great magician but maybe he’s wrong.  I think I might be someday (please don’t tell him I said that)._
> 
> _Not everything is perfect of course. I’ve made some friends, but there are a lot of people who are… hmmmmm, what word should I use? Prats? Boors? Morons?  Well, you get the idea.  Luckily most of them are in Gryffindor so I don’t have to see them a lot.  I’ve had a few fights – not real fights, just arguments really.  I know you and father would want me to stick up for myself.  The other day one of the older Gryffindors was making bowls of pudding appear and then dumping them on people’s heads as they walked by.  I pulled out my wand and walked right up to him like I was going to duel him or something.  Of course he was about five years ahead of me so he knew I couldn’t really do anything.  While he was grinning and waving his wand in my face I snatched it out of his hand and tossed it out the window.  You should have seen the look on his face._
> 
> _I like it here but I miss home. I miss you.  It’s too bad you can’t come visit me this term.  I really really really hope I get to see you at Christmas._
> 
> _Your obedient son,_
> 
> _Draco_

 

His mother would be pleased with the letter, Draco knew, but as he rolled it up and tied it with a small piece of string, wishing he knew how to seal it with a touch of his wand as he’d seen some of the older students do, he did feel a twinge of guilt about his lie. He hadn’t actually thrown anyone’s wand out the window.  He had written that because he thought it would impress his mother.  He didn’t like lying but he wanted her to be proud.  The idea of throwing the letter away and starting over bounced around in his head for a brief moment before he decided that one little lie wouldn’t hurt, especially one that was bound to make his mother happy.

 

*

 

Draco was the first to leave the common room, but because he stopped by the Owlery to send his letter on the way, he was the last to arrive at Astronomy class except for Greg. Professor Sinistra was already there too, sitting on the wall of the Astronomy Tower looking towards the distant mountains, her legs dangling casually over the edge.

“Er, maybe you should come down off the wall, Professor,” Daphne said in a tremulous voice.

“What? Oh yes.  I take your point,” Aurora Sinistra answered in an unconcerned tone.  She glanced straight down.  “I suppose it would be a rather terminal fall if someone knocked me over the edge.”  She swung her legs back around and faced the class.  “But, please, call me Aurora.  Now who did their homework?”

There was a palpable stirring of tension amongst the students as no one could remember being assigned any homework.

“You know. The wishes.  You all wished upon a falling star and you were supposed to see if it came true.”

There was a collective sigh of relief.

“Well, mine did when you warmed up the tower last lesson,” answered Pansy, a long scarf circling her neck three times and gloves on her hands.

“Yes, we remember that. Anyone else?”

“Mine did. I wished there would be orange juice for breakfast and there was.”

“I wished that I wouldn’t get lost on the way to History of Magic class and I didn’t”

“Well, I wished that there would be a hundred-thousand Galleons on my bed when I got back and there wasn’t.”

“Hmmm. And what about you, Greg?” Professor Sinistra asked as Gregory Goyle finally came puffing up the ladder.  “Did your wish from last class come true?”

“I guess so. I wished class would end and it did, eventually.”

Instead of getting angry at this, Aurora laughed out loud. “I think we’re seeing a pattern here.  If your wish was something that was relatively likely to happen anyway, it seems more likely to have come true.

Draco didn’t think that his wish had come true. He’d wished that Potter would be accidentally transfigured into a mango but as far as he knew it hadn’t happened. 

 

*

 

At breakfast two days later, Potter was still stubbornly un-mango-like and the Gryffindors were shrieking loudly as usual.

“Why do they always need to shout at each other instead of just talking?” Draco asked the boys at his breakfast table.

Crabbe ignored him and sighed while prodding the yolk of his egg with a slender spoon. “Not exactly soft-boiled, is it?”

Theodore disengaged from a conversation with the rest of the table, leaned over and asked, “Crabbe, who do you reckon is the worst teacher?”

“Would it kill them to make a nice Eggs Benedict or Quiche Lorraine once in a while?”

“What?”

“Never mind. The answer is McGonagall, hands down.”

“See!” Theodore turned back to the others as if he had just proved his point.

The debate over ‘worst teacher’ had been going back and forth for a while. It was down to McGonagall and Professor Binns, the ghost who taught History of Magic class.  Most of the Slytherins were favouring McGonagall, arguing that although Binns was obviously the most boring, you something more than that to really qualify as the “worst.”

“Still, having class with him just after getting out of bed is deadly.”

“It’s a lot better than the days when we get McGonagall first thing.”

“I like having Binns in the morning. You’ve got the entire class to catch up on your sleep.  I just wish the chairs were softer.”

 “I think Snape’s the worst,” Blaise piped up.  When he saw the surprised looks on everyone’s faces he said, “What?  He acts nice enough but it’s just because he knows our parents.  When you look at his face you can tell he doesn’t really like us.  He’s just a suck-up.”

“What do you think the new teacher will be like?” Pansy lowered her voice to a whisper as if somehow fearing that Madam Hooch, who would be teaching their Flying lesson that afternoon, could have better hearing than any of the other professors.  The grey-haired professor was a new arrival at the staff table this morning.

“I bet she’ll be like McGonagall. She looks a bit like her,” answered Greg.

“No way! She looks nicer than that.”

“I don’t think we should really be talking about the teachers this way,” interrupted Dianna, who seemed to be running out of patience with her fellow Slytherins more and more often lately.

“Oh come on!” said Crabbe tossing his spoon aside. “You can’t help liking or hating things.  Take this breakfast for instance… ”

What he was going to say was drowned out by shouts and wing beats as dozens of owls bringing the morning post swooped into the Great Hall. Only a couple of Slytherins received letters.  Draco kept scanning the room hoping that one of the owls would come swooping down to him, but none did.  All he could do was watch as others studied their parcels.

An even louder than normal disturbance burst out from the Gryffindor table. Neville Longbottom, the boy whose potion had melted a hole in the floor in the first Potions class, was holding up a fist sized orb full of swirling white smoke while the other Gryffindors crowded around.  The orb reminded Draco of the crystal ball back in the Malfoy’s library and he studied it from a distance, wondering if it could be the same.  Eventually, curiosity got the best of him and he rose, followed a step later by Crabbe and Greg, and made his way over to the Gryffindor table.  As the three boys approached, the ball suddenly changed from white to a deep red.  Neville looked concerned and was muttering something to his neighbours when Potter, spotting the Slytherin boys’ approach, shouted from across the table, “Hey Neville, looks like the idiot detector your gran sent is working after all!”

Draco stopped in mid-stride as the Gryffindors all burst out laughing, with Weasley, braying like a donkey, making the most noise of all.

Instinctively Draco snatched the ball out of Neville’s hand with half a mind to hurl it straight at Potter’s head, regardless of all the teachers sitting a short distance away. However, with a scraping of chairs a half-a-dozen Gryffindors stood up, their body language just daring Draco a make a move.  Standing straight in front of him was Ron Weasley.  He was at least half a head taller than Draco with overly long arms which made him look a bit like an ape.  But it wasn’t Weasley’s glare that stopped Draco.  Professor McGonagall, who couldn’t have arrived any faster even if she’d been sitting at the Gryffindor table, asked, with her usual tight scowl, “What’s going on?”

“Just looking,” answered Draco, passing the ball back to Neville, who looked genuinely confused about what was going on.

Six hours later, everybody was as excited about the first Flying class as if it was Christmas morning. Everybody, that is, except for Draco who was still fuming about Potter’s insult as he stood around on the wind-lashed field below Hogwarts Castle waiting for class to start.  The sun was beaming down brightly on what would be one of the last sunny afternoons of the fall, but it was still chilly.

The object of his anger, the Gryffindors, finally showed up en masse, several minutes after the bell had rung. Madam Hooch, who had been watching for them, stomped across the field, her yellow eyes flashing.

As soon as the last Gryffindor finished strolling down the hill, Madam Hooch bellowed, “Well, what are you waiting for? Everyone stand by a broomstick.” 

Draco’s anger was forgotten in a flash, replaced with a wave of nausea as he scurried over to the rows of brooms lying on the ground. He knew how to fly, but was still regretting how much he’d boasted about it.  His mind was filled with images of not even being able to take off.  Potter would love that.  He could already hear Potter’s grating voice taunting, “Nice flying Malfoy.  Any other tricks you want to show us?”

Despite all his worries, Draco had no trouble getting started. In fact, only a few people had any trouble getting their brooms to obey the command of “Up,” and soon everyone was straddling a hovering broom.  Madam Hooch went up and down the line giving bits of advice.  She told Draco that his grip was too far back and tapped the spot on the broom that he should hold.  When she was at the end of the line she stepped back and told the class to prepare to take off.  Before she could give them the signal, Neville Longbottom suddenly shot skyward, but only for a couple of seconds.  Slipping off his broom almost immediately, he plummeted through the air to the gasps of the watching crowd, and crashed to the ground almost exactly at Draco’s feet.

“I’m all right,” Neville groaned, even though he didn’t look all right at all.

Madam Hooch helped Longbottom to his feet. He staggered from side to side as she led him back toward the castle, calling over her shoulder that all students had better stay firmly on the ground until she returned and issuing dire warnings about what would happen if they didn’t.

Nervous giggles and excited chatter filled the air.

“Glad that wasn’t me!”

“I did the same thing first time I was on a broom. I was only four but I still remember it.”

Some of the students were laughing now, watching as Neville’s broom continued to fly on its own out over the Forbidden Forest.

“Do you think it’ll ever come back?”

“I wouldn’t if I were a broom. Fly!  You’re free at last!  Madam Hooch will never catch you now.”

Blaise and Theodore killed the time by having a jousting match with the front of their brooms, feet still on the ground of course.

Crabbe and Pansy were busy arguing with some of the Gryffindors over whether or not Gryffindor house should have some points taken away for Neville’s bad flying.

“Did she say he’d broken his arm?” asked Greg

“Maybe, but did you see his face? He had this great big lump on his…” Draco trailed off as he noticed a red glow in the grass right next to his feet. 

“What is that?” Greg asked.

“It’s that stupid thing Longbottom’s gran sent him,” Draco grumbled, plucking up the smooth round orb.

Potter noticed him pick it up and yelled out, “Hey look, Neville’s idiot detector is going off again.”

The Gryffindors all burst out laughing, except for Hermione who just stared around at her classmates disapprovingly.

“Give that here, Malfoy,” Potter demanded, smiling nastily.

Draco face reddened. His desire to not let himself be bullied by Potter, especially in front of both houses, pushed out all the anxiety he had about testing his flying skills.  He kicked off, and though the broom felt awkward and unfamiliar, it did the trick.  After all, he just needed to put Neville’s orb up on a ledge or in a tree and Potter would be helpless to do anything about it.  However, Draco’s heart sank when, moments later, Potter soared after him.  Draco tried to shake him with a series of quick cuts and turns, but Potter had no trouble sticking to him, taunting him loud enough for his words to be heard by the awestruck students below.

It started to dawn on Draco that Potter must have been lying when he said he had never flown before. “He wants to show off how fast he can learn – make me look bad!  He’s going to show me up in front of everybody,”  On impulse he hurled the orb as far as his could.  While Potter raced off after it, Draco drifted back to the ground, landing behind Greg and Crabbe.

“I wanted to help you, mate,” said Crabbe, squatting on his broom and hopping awkwardly, “but either this broom is broken or it has something against me.” Crabbe dropped it to the ground and complained, “You’ve won this round, stick, but I’m on to you.”

While Crabbe was talking, Draco was watching as Longbottom’s ball arced through the air. Then something happened that made him feel worse, even though he wouldn’t have believed that to be possible.  Potter made a steep dive, caught the orb with one hand, pulled hard up on the broom with the other, and tumbled gently onto the ground.  Holding the orb high in the air in triumph he was greeted by cheers from the Gryffindors, and even from some Slytherins. 

While trying to wipe the stupefied expression off his face, Draco was, for the first time ever, happy to hear Professor McGonagall’s voice. She was bellowing angrily while marching straight towards Potter.  Apparently she’d seen Potter’s little flight and she obviously wasn’t too happy about it.  Better still, she took no notice of Draco.  Perhaps she hadn’t seen him in the air.

McGonagall dragged the protesting Potter away and it wasn’t until dinner, where students were devouring everything in sight with wolfish enthusiasm, that the Slytherins saw him again. Instead of looking like someone who’d suffered a harsh punishment, which is what everyone expected after Professor Hooch’s dire warnings about what would happen if anyone tried flying while she was gone, he appeared oddly cheerful as he joked and laughed with the others at the boisterous Gryffindor table.

For the second time that day Draco’s curiosity got the better of him. He scraped his wooden chair back noisily across the stone floor, the sound joining the cacophony of voices.  He was surprised when both Greg and Crabbe stuffed a couple more things in their mouths and jumped up to follow him.  He didn’t know if it they were developing a habit of following him everywhere or if they were just curious about what he was up to.  Regardless, he felt a little relieved to have the company, and the three made their way across the Great Hall. 

As Draco approached, Potter’s nasal voice suddenly rose higher, as if he was addressing someone far down the table. The words were obviously meant for Draco’s ears.  “Yes, it’s quite true.  They’ve asked me to be Seeker on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.  Oh, but keep it quiet.  No one’s to know – I’ve been asked to keep it a bit of a secret.”

Draco regarded Potter, slouched arrogantly in a chair with his legs splayed out and his hands folded behind his head, looking like a king keeping court. Potter had to be lying, didn’t he?  Although Draco’s suddenly felt queasy and unsure, he decided that he needed to call the bluff.

“Having a last meal, Potter? When are you getting the train back to the Muggles?”

Ron Weasley stood up and said, (although it was a bit hard to understand what he was saying because his mouth was half-full of food) “A bit out of your neighbourhood aren’t you, Malfoy?”

Draco spat back, “Why are you always shoving your filthy face into mine, you cretin? Look at you, with your moth-eaten robe, dirty shoes and… and… and do you ever even take a shower?”

“You’re a lot braver now you’re back on the ground and you’ve got your little friends with you,” Potter chuckled, still sitting on his throne and grinning.

Some of the Gryffindors started chanting under their breath, “Fight… Fight… Fight,” keeping it just quiet enough to stop the teachers from hearing, although a few of the staff were already looking in their direction wondering what exactly was going on.

“That’s not a bad idea,” rumbled Greg, punching his fist into his palm.

“Oh, is that what your boss wants you to do? How much is he paying you to be his bodyguard, anyway?” Potter smirked.

Draco snorted, “As if I need bodyguards. I’d take you on any time on my own.”

“When?” asked Potter in a high-pitched taunting voice.

Draco answered, “Tonight if you want.”

Potter laughed and answered sarcastically, “Sure, anytime.”

Both boys, egged on by their classmates, continued to bicker and pose for another minute until it was agreed that they would meet in the trophy room at midnight.

As they walked away, still getting jeers tossed at them, Crabbe asked, “Are you really going to fight him?”

“Gladly. But I’m not going to waste my time going to the trophy room tonight.  There’s no way he’s really coming – he was only saying that hoping I’d get in trouble for roaming the halls after curfew.”

“Oh, I see,” said Greg, though his puzzled face suggested the opposite.

 

*

A lot of Slytherins didn’t like Potions class much. It was “too hard,” “too smelly,” or “too long.”  However Draco did enjoy it.  It was the only class where he could really settle down and work on something without interruptions.

Just as had happened the previous week, Draco was one of the first students finished the day’s assignment. Most of the class seemed to be only half done while some seemed to have given up completely and were just playing around with ingredients. 

Weasley was busy boiling something the looked like yellow pus, occasionally flicking drops of it on the table and watching the bubbling brew eat little holes in the tabletop whenever Professor Snape’s back was turned.

“Tortoise shells are not the same as turtle shells. That is why your potion seems to have turned into a pile of congealed soot, Miss Parkinson.”

“Excuse me, Professor?”

“Yes Mr Malfoy? How can I help you?”

“May I make another potion? Something out of the book?”

“Oh certainly, go right ahead. It’s nothing dangerous is it?”

“I don’t think so. I thought I’d give this Levitation potion a go.”

For the remaining hour of class, and for another hour after that, Draco laboured away on the potion. It didn’t turn out quite the right shade of blue and it didn’t have the foamy head the book promised, but Professor Snape seemed impressed anyway.

“Not bad for a first try. Especially for someone who has only had two Potions lessons so far,” said Professor Snape as he held the phial up to the light of a flickering torch.  He then gingerly dipped a finger in and put a drop of the liquid on his tongue.

“Hmm. I’ve tasted worse.  It seems fine – it won’t kill you, anyway.  Next time, boil it a bit longer and when it says to mince the kelp you really need to mince it.  Don’t just chop it up; keep cutting until you can’t make it any smaller.”

“Is it really magic, Professor?”

“I couldn’t really say unless I tested it properly. I doubt it’ll be particularly potent but it’ll probably work to a degree.”

“No, sorry sir. I didn’t mean my potion specifically.  I just meant Potions.  I mean, mixing things up.  It isn’t really magic, is it?”

“A common misconception, but actually, yes it is. Potions are not simply some chemical reaction that Muggles have yet to discover.  They can have an affect over an area.  So a Levitation potion will not only affect the person who drinks it, but whatever they’re touching as well.  An even better proof that Potions are true magic is that they may or may not have any affect at all.  A wizard who drinks a Levitation potion will start to float freely.  If a Muggle were to drink the same potion, nothing would happen.”

“So could a potion be used as a test? To see if someone is actually a wizard or not?”

“It certainly could, and not just to tell if someone is magical or not. Potions can be used to test how powerful a wizard is.  A potion is often much more effective on a sorcerer with greater skill than on a lesser wizard.”

Professor Snape passed the potion back to Draco. “I probably shouldn’t let you keep this, but let’s break the rules just this once.  Do me a favour, though, and don’t tell everyone, or they’ll all want to be in here brewing up potions for Love or for Treasure-Finding.”


	10. Mudblood

For the third Monday in a row Draco had really meant to get to Transfiguration class on time, or better yet arrive well and truly early. But, just as Draco, Crabbe and Greg rounded the corner for the Transfiguration corridor, Fred and George Weasley hit them with some kind of Petrification Spell, much to the amusement of their little brother Ron and his friend Potter who had clearly been waiting here to watch the ambush. 

The three Slytherins ended up stuck motionless while half the school filed past. Even Professor Snape walked right by, too engrossed in a whispered conversation with the Bloody Baron to notice several students doing excellent imitations of stone statues.

Unfortunately for Greg, his mouth had been open when the spell hit and he had to endure the Weasleys taking turns trying to land a marble in it. Transfiguration was already underway when a couple of older Ravenclaw girls named Kate and Ivy finally rescued them, while tut-tutting about childish first-years needing to grow up.

The Monday after that was even worse, although for a change it had nothing to do with Transfiguration class.

“Remember the first Flying class?” Crabbe complained loudly to some of the older Slytherins at lunch that day. “When Potter was told to stay on the ground but he didn’t?”

Evangeline Stout gave a high-pitched laugh. “I’d heard he wasn’t the only one.”

Crabbe ignored her and went on. “And he got dragged away by McGonagall.  We all thought he was done for.  That he’d be packing his bags and catching the next train back to wherever it is he came from.”

“Guess you were wrong.”

“Well, obviously. But that’s just the start of it.  Listen – Remember how Potter has been telling people that he’s been put on the Gryffindor Quidditch team?”

Marcus Flint, the brawny captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team – who didn’t usually have the time for younger students like Crabbe – set down the goblet of pumpkin juice he was about to drink. “Yeah, so what?  He’s just trying to impress people.  We’d kill him if they really let him play.”

“No, it turns out it he was telling the truth. We saw Potter with his own broom today.”

“You did not!”

“We did,” Draco took over telling the story. “We were on the stairs when Potter came strutting up.  You know how he struts.  Anyway, I was trying my best to ignore him, but he ‘accidentally’ jammed me right in the ribcage with this package he was carrying.  Then he actually told me to watch out where _I’m_ going.  So I pulled the package out of his hands and right away I could tell it was a broom.”

“How’d you know what was in it? Did he let you open it up?”

“I didn’t have to open it! I could tell by how it felt.  Plus, when I threw it back at him it didn’t fall.  It just kind of hovered there.

“And what did you do?”

“Well, it was just then that Professor Flitwick asked us what was going on, so I told him about Potter sneaking around with a broom.”

“And I bet he dealt with the matter right away,” Marcus Flint said sarcastically.

“He told me that I ‘wasn’t to worry.’ That although Harry was ‘wrong to be showing the broom off,’ he had special permission to have a broom despite the normal ban on first-years having their own at Hogwarts.  He said that Potter needed it as he was now an official member of a registered school Quidditch team.”

Excited chatter broke out. Some people were rightfully angry.  Others were actually excited about the turn of events.

“Smacks of desperation, doesn’t it? If they are using a first-year, we’ll crush them even worse than we were going to already,” whooped Adrian Pucey, another player on the Slytherin Quidditch team, spattering pumpkin juice over his neighbours as he exuberantly toasted the turn of events.

“Isn’t your father on the Board of Governors? Can’t he do something about it?” Pansy asked a still indignant Draco, her feeling-eyes showing that she sympathized with his frustration and didn’t really care how this might affect the Slytherin’s Quidditch chances.

“That wouldn’t make any difference,” complained Evangeline. “The Board might make the rules but it’s the Headmaster who enforces them which is why most rules seem to apply only to three houses.”

“That’s what you get when your Headmaster is an ex-Gryffindor,” a voice called from down the table. Everyone seemed to be involved in the conversation now.

“And don’t forget McGonagall. She’s Deputy Headmistress, second in command around here, and she was in Gryffindor too.”

In the end, the general consensus was that Potter would probably play so pathetically that he would quit after one Quidditch match, but that regardless the Slytherins had been woefully mistreated by this flagrant disregard for established rules.

But if Potter was going to be pathetic, it wasn’t obvious during Flying lessons. Everyone, including Madam Hooch, was very impressed with his flying skills, and for good reason – he really was very talented on a broom.  Draco, while he was improving, was aware that his skills weren’t even close to being as impressive as he’d claimed they were.  Luckily, no one seemed to have noticed or called him out on it.  This might have been due to the fact that a lot of other students didn’t seem to be nearly as good at flying as they’d claimed either.

Regardless of any ill-will towards Potter or widespread feelings of inadequacy, Flying quickly became everyone’s favourite class anyway. After all, it is difficult to not like a class where you get to race through the air. 

Madam Hooch had a fierce demeanor, barking commands or making students cringe with her piercing glare, but she clearly had a very playful streak as well.

“I’ve got an idea – let’s start today with flying drills and skills,” she would announce, as if they didn’t start every class like that.

The students would groan, even though the drills were fun in themselves. Every lesson she would press them to try to turn a little sharper, dive a little faster.  Even though the weather at this time of year often brought slashing rain, few people seemed to mind.  Madam Hooch said they had to press hard because this was their one chance to learn.  Flying class was only given to first-year students.

The real reason the students groaned when she said they would be doing ‘drills and skills’ is that the rest of the class time was spent doing things that were even better. They had lots of races, some of which were more like obstacle courses, and they played a lot of flying games.  The tug-o-war was especially popular and involved the tricky skill of flying backwards.  However, most people liked the Quidditch lessons the best.

Just learning about Quidditch seemed to fascinate the students. Those who came from Muggle families didn’t really know much about it and were eager to learn.  Those who came from wizarding families were usually already big Quidditch fans and loved to hear more.  No one had, as of yet, asked a single question in their History of Magic class, but Madam Hooch was constantly being bombarded with them. 

Sometimes people asked the most simple questions.

“What are the balls called?”

“The Quaffle, the Bludger, and the Snitch.”

“How do you get points?”

“If you get the Quaffle through one of the opposition’s three goal hoops you get ten points. If your Seeker catches the Snitch you get one hundred and fifty.”

“What positions are there?”

“There is one Keeper, who tries to block the goal hoops, one Seeker who tries to catch the Snitch, two Beaters who try to direct the Bludger away from your players and towards the opposition and three Chasers who try to get the Quaffle through the opposition’s goal hoops.”

When people asked these simple questions, Weasley and another Gryffindor named Seamus Finnegan, would laugh and say things like, “I can’t believe you don’t already know that.” At least that’s what Weasley would say.  Finnegan’s comments were in an accent so thick that almost nobody could understand him.

Potter, on the other hand, was unusually polite, paying attention to everything Madam Hooch said.

As time went by the questions got more complicated and by then even Weasley was listening carefully to the answers.

“Why does the Snitch seem to disappear sometimes? I mean the whole crowd will see it and then everyone will just seem to lose track of it.”

“Ever notice how a housefly buzzes around like crazy most of the time, and when it does rest it only rests for a few seconds. The Snitch is like that.  Most of the time it is buzzing around like crazy, moving so fast that no one can see it.  Literally, no one.  It moves so fast the eye can’t even register it.  Now and then it gets tired and ‘rests’ but instead of sitting on a windowsill like a housefly, it just moves much slower than normal.  Even when it’s resting it is still moving so fast it can be difficult to catch, but that is as slow as it gets.

“I’ve been reading the results of all the league Quidditch games in the last hundred years,” – this was Hermione talking – “and I’ve noticed that the team that catches the Snitch almost always wins the game. I mean, if you make catching the Snitch worth one hundred and fifty points that is almost bound to happen, isn’t it?  If that’s the way it goes, why not just make it a Snitch-catching contest?  The rest of the game doesn’t matter too much.”

“There is definitely some truth in what you’re saying,” Madam Hooch answered, despite the hissing from a handful of Quidditch fans who thought the question showed a lack of respect to the game. “Catching the Snitch wasn’t always worth one hundred and fifty points.  For centuries it was worth only fifty points.  However, in the year 1354, or so the story goes, a giant named Knorson was playing.”

“A giant? Wasn’t he too big for a broom?”

“Well, I’m not sure he even had a broom, but in any case, somebody let Knorson play. During one particular game he caught the Snitch, and the game ended in a score of one hundred to ninety with Knorson’s team losing.  Apparently everybody was cross at him.  His own team was angry because, by catching the Snitch, he’d ended the game with his team losing.  The opposition was angry because when he’d caught the Snitch he’d accidentally caught one of their Chasers as well.  So everyone was yelling at Knorson, and he got angry as well, and started insisting that his team had won the game.  Of course, nobody believed him and the yelling continued until he started bashing various players on both teams with the Chaser that he was still holding.  Soon everyone decided ‘Knorson was right,’ and declared that his team had won because the Snitch was actually worth one hundred and fifty points.  From that point on, for better or worse, the Snitch has been worth one hundred and fifty points.”

As the term progressed, less time was spent on learning skills or discussing Quidditch history, and more time was spent actually playing. Most of the time they played variations of Quidditch, not using the full rules.  Madam Hooch called these games names like Soft-Quidditch or No-Snitch-Quidditch.  She made everyone take turns trying out different positions which was fun but could be embarrassing too.  Some people had a knack for certain things, like blocking shots, and some people didn’t.  Luckily if you were really bad at something you usually weren’t the only one.

 Draco discovered that he was pretty fair at playing Seeker, but was generally hopeless at the other positions.  He especially hated being a Beater because instead of being able to direct Bludgers in the proper direction, he usually ended up spending his time just trying to stay on his broom as the Bludger repeatedly bashed into him.

A lot of the time Madam Hooch would mix teams up to include some Slytherins and some Gryffindors. On the rare occasions when she divided the teams by house, things tended to get a lot more competitive.  The Slytherins almost always emerged victorious in these games, partly because they had the player who, after a few classes, came to dominate everyone else.

Dianna Morgan, the Slytherin with long black hair, had obviously never been on a broom before coming to Hogwarts. In her first few attempts at flying she had trouble getting off the ground and one of the first times she did get up she drifted into the castle, lazily crashing through the window of the Transfiguration classroom.  But after getting some confidence she quickly mastered the Quidditch skills and soon become either an almost unbeatable Keeper or a dominant Beater, depending on which position she played.

Of course, there was an inevitable chorus of protests about her size giving her an unfair advantage. A sharp-tongued Gryffindor named Lavender Brown usually led the complaining, unless Dianna was put on Lavender’s team, in which case allowing Dianna to play suddenly seemed fair after all.

“Every first-year will be treated the same,” was Madam Hooch’s inevitable response. It was a motto she seemed to believe in because she never played favourites.  There was still a lot of arguing, perhaps because some students, especially those less adept at sports, found arguing to be the best part of the game.

 

*

 

As the first month at Hogwarts gave way to the second, the students eventually settled down into a smooth routine.  Everyone knew how to get to classes, even if a certain doorway or stairwell should prove to be unhelpful.  People had figured out who they liked to sit with and who they didn’t.  Different groups had laid claim to patches of grass or certain tables that they staked out as their own private territory.

Draco too had settled into a relatively comfortable routine. He was getting used to Greg and Crabbe plodding along behind him most of the time, but he’d also figured out a few ways to ditch them when he felt like being alone.  The best way was to simply put some time into his schoolwork.  Neither one of them seemed too fond of sitting around doing homework, and staying behind after class was absolutely taboo.

Crabbe and Greg’s attitude towards school seemed odd. Crabbe wasn’t too bad; he paid attention in class and even seemed to pick things up quicker than most, but Greg seemed to resent being in Hogwarts at all, or at least regarded the time spent in classes as wasted. 

On the other hand, time used lounging around in the common room with the rest of the Slytherins was definitely worthwhile, which is where Draco, Crabbe, and Greg found themselves one weekend early in October.

Crabbe, noticing that Greg was scratching the ears of a happily purring tabby, asked, “I thought you were allergic to cats, mate?”

“Oh right. I… I forgot.”  Greg reluctantly pushed the cat until it hopped down onto the floor in search of a new lap.

The tabby considered going over to where Pansy and Draco were sitting by the fire, arguing over who the ugliest Gryffindor was, but Pansy’s cat Argyle had already claimed that spot.

“What’s that announcement you’re putting up, Darren?” a seventh-year girl named Madge called out surprisingly loudly, startling the tabby and causing it to dart under the nearest sofa.

“We’re just looking for extra Quidditch players,” Darren MacIntyre hollered back.

“Oh, that’s sounds like a wonderful opportunity. Can anyone sign up?”  By now, Madge and Darren’s booming voices had attracted the attention of everyone in the room.

“Why yes, yes they can, Madge. Even the most itsy-bitsy first-year with no talent whatsoever can sign up and play all the Quidditch they’d ever want.”

“My my, I bet they all rush over and sign up right now. Is there any reason why they wouldn’t?”

“No, no reason at all. Unless they’re a bunch of cowards who want everyone to be ashamed of them for the rest of their lives and for a good long while after that too.”

“Well, see you later, Darren.”

As Madge walked away, every first-year crowded over to the noticeboard in a cloud of excited chatter.

“But first-years aren’t allowed to play Quidditch.”

“Unless you’re named Potter you mean!”

“Isn’t this against the rules?”

“Calm down, my irritating little brothers and sisters,” smiled Darren. He pointed at the ground, “Sit!”

Dutifully everyone did exactly that, hitching up their robes and flopping down on the cold floor.

“Of course it isn’t against the rules, but you’re too young to know what a stupid question that was so I forgive you. Now it is true that first-years aren’t allowed to keep their own brooms in residence or play on the official house Quidditch team, unless they’ve received special permission from the Headmaster, which, of course, none of you will ever get.  However, all is not lost, my munchkin-like charges.  You’re still allowed to join the practice roster.  That means whenever the Slytherin team is practicing they’ll be practicing against you!  Of course they’ll flatten you again and again, leaving you shattered, depressed, and even a little sad.  But when the Slytherin team wins the Cup at the end of the year all because a Bludger was perfectly smashed into the face of an opponent, you will have the pride of knowing that the Slytherin player only gained the skills to pull off that maneuver by spending the year repeatedly smashing that Bludger into _your_ face.  At that moment you will finally realize you are not a boy anymore, but a man – unless of course you’re female, in which case you’ll realize something completely different.”

“But we wouldn’t get to play in any actual games? Like, against the other houses?”

“No, of course not. You’d be absolute rubbish and would just embarrass the good name of Slytherin.  But, look at it this way:  The real team – the team with older, far more talented, handsome and generally much more likable players – only plays _three_ real games all year.  Quite the waste of excitement, really – getting all pumped up about a Quidditch Championship when you might have to wait four months between games.  But you, the dedicated though smelly members of the Slytherin practice squad, get to play more than that in a single month since there is usually one practice every week.  So there you’ll be, every seven days, playing your heart out for sheer love of the game.  Now what could be better than that?”

In answer to that question the first-year Slytherins, and many older students besides, rushed forward and signed up.

So many signatures had been attached to the list that it came as a bit of surprise when only a handful of players showed up the next week.

“You don’t suppose the weather has anything to do with it?” shouted Crabbe over the sound of pelting rain, peeking through one eye as the other had been covered by his sodden hair pasted down over his face.

As it turned out, Crabbe was right. When the weather was pleasant there was always a crowd of players, jockeying with each other for their share of time on the pitch.  When the weather was bad far fewer people showed up.  As the season progressed, and the rains of early fall turned into the cold and clinging sleet of the coming winter, there weren’t always enough players to even field a team.

Draco, Crabbe and Dianna could usually be counted on to show up most weeks. Draco always volunteered to play as Seeker, a position few other people seemed interested in since it often involved long stretches of doing nothing more than drifting around looking for the Snitch.  Crabbe and Dianna liked to be Beaters.  Sometimes Greg would come too and then Crabbe and Greg would usually take turns playing.

If worst came to worst, and not enough Slytherins showed up, the team would let players from other houses join in the practice to make up the numbers. A cheerful Hufflepuff girl named Carrie often ended up as Keeper.  She wasn’t particularly quick but her positioning was good.  Best of all, she didn’t blame her teammates for every goal that went in like so many other Keepers seemed to do.

Three Ravenclaws were always willing to be Chasers and they worked well together. One was a round-faced boy named Angel who liked to try trick shots, like behind the back or through the legs.  The other two were a pair of tall sisters named Ivy and Kate.  They were the ones who had rescued the boys after they’d been petrified by the Weasley twins on their way to Transfiguration Class, so Draco and his friends were always happy to see them.

Darren MacIntyre was right. The practice squad generally got flattened by the Slytherin Quidditch team, especially when the weather was good and all the people who only played once in a while showed up.  But even in bad weather the Slytherin team had a distinct upper hand, usually scoring goals against Carrie at will.  The only exception was if Draco managed to catch the Snitch early enough in the game, before the score was a runaway, which he did more and more frequently as time went by.  His improving skills didn’t go unnoticed.  Marcus Flint, the team captain, started dropping hints that he might let Draco play Seeker for the house team in the upcoming year.

After spending so much time on the Quidditch pitch together it was strange not to see the rest of the non-Slytherin players outside of practice, except briefly when passing in the halls. Sometimes they did manage to sit together at meals, clustered at the far end of one of the House tables. 

If they did eat together it was usually at breakfast, when the Hall was emptiest, although that usually meant that Greg wasn’t there. He was always last to leave the Cave in the morning.  Considering how little homework he did, it was hard to see why he needed so much rest.

It was at one of these breakfasts, on a morning when the clouds hung so low it felt claustrophobic in the Great Hall, that Crabbe finally decided to ask Dianna the thing everybody had been wondering about.

“So Dianna, what’s wrong with you anyway? Which one of your parents is a troll?  Your mother or your father?”

Crabbe had asked the question very nonchalantly while most of his attention was focused on the proportions of cinnamon, butter, and sugar on his cinnamon toast.

Carrie and Ivy noticeably stiffened, glancing quickly sideways to see how Dianna would react to this. She was so quiet that it was hard to know what she was thinking.  Luckily she didn’t seem angry.  She just gave one quick chuckle and went back to drawing silver trails on the tablecloth with her wand, ignoring the question.

Crabbe pressed on. “I mean look at me.  I’m big, no one’s denying that, but you’re – well, you’re a monster.”

“I assume you’re asking about my size? Not implying that I look like a troll, or eat like one?  Because your buddy Greg would be a more apt comparison there.”

A brief silence, except for the faintest clinking of cutlery on plates, was broken by Crabbe. “See that’s exactly what I’m talking about.  Not only are you the size of a troll, but you use words like ‘apt.’  I don’t even know what that means, so I say again:  what’s wrong with you?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Dianna said calmly, picking up a buttered scone and waving it to punctuate her point. “I’m not weirdly large.  I’m just older than you – or hadn’t you noticed?”

“How old are you?” most of the group asked in unison.

“I’m eighteen. I just turned eighteen a few days ago.”

“Eighteen!! Why are you in first year?  I thought if someone failed their courses that many times they either kicked you out or made you the Transfiguration teacher,” retorted Crabbe.

“I haven’t failed either. I’m just starting.  I was accepted to Hogwarts years ago but my father wouldn’t let me come.  Don’t ask me why – I never really understood myself, although we had tons of fights about it.  So anyway, when I was old enough I left home, moved to Hogsmeade, and came to Hogwarts to ask Professor Dumbledore if I could still get in.”

“And he let you, even though you were so old?” asked Kate who was the only person at the table close to Dianna’s age.

“Well at first he just tried to talk me out of coming. He said it would be disruptive, and hard for me to fit in, and blah, blah, blah.  But after I’d convinced him how much I wanted it, he gave in.  How’d he put it?  He said that anyone willing to fight for it for that long was bound to have the patience to attend Hogwarts.  But that was just the start of it.  I had to convince the Board of Governors to let me in too.  There were three different meetings about it.”

“My father is on the Board of Governors,” Draco piped up.

“Yeah, I know. He’s one of the ones that didn’t want to let me in.  Anyway after about two months they finally said that I could attend but I had to make all sorts of promises, like not joining any House Quidditch teams.”

Everyone was suitably impressed by Dianna’s story. Ivy said that she didn’t think she could just leave home at seventeen and live on her own.

“All that effort to just come baby-sit us,” Crabbe cracked.

“You are one mad Mudblood,” Draco added with a smile.

Dianna’s face suddenly turned the colour of the clouds pressing down from the ceiling above, and she kicked Draco hard under the table causing him to cry out.

“I’m not a Mudblood,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Both my parents were wizards.  My father didn’t want me to come to Hogwarts because my mother was killed by another wizard.  Ever since then he hasn’t wanted to have anything to do with magic, but my blood is as pure as yours, Malfoy.”

Dianna pushed the chair away and stormed out of the room leaving the half-eaten scone still on her plate.

The other girls immediately rounded on Draco.

“That was really rude.”

“Absolutely, even if she wasn’t, well you know – even if her parents were Muggles – you don’t call someone that.”

“But, but… Crabbe called her a troll didn’t he? No one complained about that!”

“Yes, but everyone knows she isn’t really a troll.”

“Plus, it’s how you say it, mate.”

For at least ten more minutes the rest of the group continued to harangue Draco. By the end of it he felt very small, but he had learned one thing.  You don’t call a friend ‘Mudblood.’


	11. Homesick

As they entered November, the weather turned very cold. The mountains around the school became icy grey and the lake like chilled steel.  The cold crept through the castle, resting on chairs, lurking in corridors, even hiding under what had always been thick warm covers.  There had only been a hint of snow a couple of times so far, but the damp – always somehow managing to find a gap in your robes – was worse.

The cold was reflected by the mood of the students. The burning excitement of newly arriving at Hogwarts faded away with the rhythm of routine and familiarity, and many felt a longing to be back with the family and friends they had eagerly left behind two months previously.

Draco felt this more than most, although at first he didn’t really know why. At times he felt outright depressed, like someone had dumped a heavy weight on him, and he wanted nothing more than to be left alone.  It was as if by isolating himself from the people at Hogwarts, he could get back to his family faster.

He found himself spending more and more time finding empty classrooms in which to “study.” In reality during those long hours he would mostly just sit and think about his home in the countryside in the south of England.  His memories were always good ones, so that by the end of the month all he seemed to remember was an affectionate family, sunny days, and endless hours of having fun.  He thought about the lectures his father gave him and wished that he’d been more respectful and attentive.  He thought about his mother returning from trips with presents in hand and wished he’d told her how much they meant to him, not because of what they were but because they came from her.  He thought about his little sisters badgering him to play games and wished he’d agreed every time.  Even Dobby was endurable in the fantasy version of home that Draco’s mind conjured.

 At other times, school was as fun and exciting as ever.  Halloween at Hogwarts had been especially enjoyable.  The food, decorations, and festivities were all impressive in their own right, but the biggest thrill of the night was when Professor Quirrell had suddenly announced during dinner in the Great Hall that a troll had somehow gotten into the dungeon of the castle.  The students were ordered to go to their common rooms, which in Slytherin’s case was straight towards where the troll was last seen.  Hardly anyone got any sleep that night as everyone took turns pretending to hear the troll clumping down the hall outside the common room door.  Occasionally students would open the door, disappear into the hall, and then start screaming as if they were being torn apart.  By the early hours of the morning some students were still racing around the halls screeching, although most had dozed off on the oversized green couches.  Yet no member of the staff, not even Professor Snape, their Head of House, had come by to either send them along to bed or to reassure them that all was well.  Of course, everyone still awake was so punch-drunk and silly that they wouldn’t have cared if a troll had come wandering in to the common room and helped himself to pumpkin juice.

There was a comfortable feeling in the Slytherin common room. By now everybody knew each other, at least by sight if not by name.  Usually people would congregate around the expansive fireplace and tell jokes and stories.  Sometimes people would bring out some magical toys or games they’d brought and show them off. 

These group times were particularly enjoyable because Draco found he had a knack for leading the conversations. Even though he was one of the smallest Slytherins, he knew he was already one of the most popular.  He didn’t need to lie so much to impress his fellow students anymore.  He learned that it wasn’t the actual events in a story but how it was told that captured people’s attention.  He’d also discovered that trying to impress people with amazing accomplishments usually irritated them more than impressed them, especially the older students.  The same Slytherins that would roll their eyes and yawn at Blaise Zabini’s tales of touring the world with his mother would hang on Draco’s every word about the rotten bananas his rebellious house-elf had sent him.

In fact, people started looking forward to the arrival of Tasmin or one of the Malfoy’s other owls with great anticipation. It had long been noticed that Draco received more letters and packages than anyone else.  The assumption had been that Draco must either have very attentive parents or overly clingy ones.  Either way, the frequent packages must be full of treats.  In truth, although he did receive the occasional stern note from his father and happier letters filled with drawings from Ember, most of the mail he received was from the Malfoy house-elf, Dobby.

Perhaps the elf had grown bored in Draco’s absence, because Dobby was sending packages roughly every second day now. They usually contained some random bit of garbage such as cooked spaghetti, lumps of candle wax, or discarded broom needles, surprisingly well packaged in neatly wrapped containers often bound with ribbons and bows.  More often than not they came with a short note that said something along the lines of “I hope this makes your day, Master Malfoy.”

When Dobby’s first ‘presents’ like this arrived Draco had been greatly embarrassed and had quietly discarded them when no one was looking. That all changed one day when Crabbe had snatched a canary yellow package decorated with hand-drawn hearts out of Draco’s hand, demanding, “For a change, let’s share those goodies around.”

Crabbe pulled out a handful of still wet hair and read the note, “Cleaning the bathtub drain made me think of you,” before Draco could stop him. Instead of making fun of Draco, which is what he expected, everybody found it hilarious.  So whenever one of the Malfoy owls swooped in to drop something off now, a crowd inevitably gathered to see what it was..

On one particularly cold morning, with the roof of the Great Hall coated a dull greyish-white, a muscular brown owl swooped down to the Slytherin table. When it dropped a small envelope by Draco’s bowl of oatmeal, everyone around him perked up in anticipation, only to be disappointed to discover that Draco’s letter today was really just a letter, and it was from his father not his house-elf.

Theodore Nott muttered, “Why do all the owls come in together like that? You’d think they’d arrive one at a time.”

It was a rare comment from Theodore. He was easily the quietest the of the first-year Slytherins.  Greg didn’t say much either, at least not much that was very intelligent, but he laughed and grunted a lot.  However Theodore usually listened silently, rarely laughed, and his face never betrayed what he was thinking.  When a fifth-year answered him, “Because, Nott-head, the owls are only allowed to come in the building once a day.  So unless they find you hanging around a window they usually wait,” it provoked no response from Theodore.

Another owl, this one a young jittery specimen that seemed more interested in checking out what was being eaten for breakfast than in delivering its letter, eventually came to a standstill in the middle of Crabbe’s stack of pancakes and allowed the letter to be pried from its leg as its head bobbed from side to side trying to figure out what was under its claws.

“Another CCLL letter?” Blaise asked.

“Yup,” said Pansy, squinting at the writing on the envelope before Crabbe had a chance to put it away.

“Thought so. That’s all he ever gets.  What is this ruddy CCLL anyway?”

“Sorry, I haven’t got time to answer that now. Too busy, I’m afraid,” Crabbe answered while eating several more bites of his pancakes before rising and ambling slowly away.

Blaise turned to Draco. “What do you think the CCLL is?”

“How would I know? Crabbe’s Cousin Lisa Lightbulb?  Crochet Club of Lower Luxembourg?”

“Cat Collectors Learning Library?” Pansy added helpfully.

“Carl Crabbe the Lazy Lumberjack?”

“Who is Carl Crabbe?”

“I don’t know. Some relative I suppose.  All I know is that he is one lazy lumberjack.”

While guessing was entertaining, no one felt they were making much progress at solving the CCLL mystery. Unfortunately, Crabbe still wouldn’t drop any hints as they badgered him an hour later in the Slytherin common room.  Instead he just changed the subject to everyone’s favourite topic of conversation this week – how Potter had almost fallen off his broom at the last Quidditch match.

“You know what is really disappointing? Potter was so close to going down.  I can’t believe he didn’t fall.”

Everyone nodded agreement to this.

“I guess that’s why they don’t usually let first-years play.”

“Do you think he was just trying to show off?”

“Definitely. I mean, the way he was bouncing around on his broom like that.  He was obviously just trying to get some attention, you know.  He probably got bored waiting for the Snitch to appear.  But then he lost control or slipped or something.”

“I heard that he thinks somebody else was making his broom jump.”

Blaise opened his mouth, about to tell everyone his opinion of Potter’s story, when he suddenly burst into flames. To be more precise, it was not Blaise himself that was on fire, but rather his black Hogwarts robe.  Still, to the boys slouched down on the common room chairs, it was surprising nonetheless.

Blaise leapt to his feet. Impressively, the old saying ‘Stop, Drop and Roll’ had instantly come to his mind, but when you’re on fire it doesn’t really matter what saying leaps to mind because no one is listening.  So, instead of stopping or even dropping, Blaise tore away at his robes, panting wildly as he hurled them as far away from him as he could.

He stood, red-faced and puffing, wearing only a t-shirt and boxer shorts (both Slytherin green) watching as his robe burned merrily on the floor of the common room. Somehow, the fire hadn’t seemed to do any harm to the furniture or even to the boy himself.

Everyone was transfixed, watching as the robe turned into of black-grey ash. When the last of the flames flickered out, Pansy Parkinson walked over to the pile of soot.  Rooting around in it, she pulled out her red button.  Pinning it back on her robe she said, “Thanks for finally giving that back.”

A surprisingly large crowd of girls burst into laughter as a wide-eyed, partially clad Blaise hustled back to the Cave with Theodore, Greg, and Crabbe following him. One of the girls taunted, “Why are you named _Blaze_ anyway?  Do you do that often?”

Draco considered following his friends down to the Cave as well, but decided that he could use the distraction to slip off and have some privacy while he read his father’s letter.

He worked his way up the castle without any specific destination in mind. Unfortunately, as it was the weekend, there seemed to be students wandering everywhere, which pushed him to search ever further for a quiet spot.  At one point Draco even found himself, quite by chance, trying to force his way into the forbidden corridor on the third-floor before he realized where he was.

Eventually Draco gave up on the castle itself and made his way down to the many twists, turns and recesses of the inner courtyard. It always seemed cold there, even on sunny days, and today, being yet another of a seemingly endless series of drizzly days, it was particularly unpleasant.  Surprisingly though, even it wasn’t empty. 

After accidentally interrupting a couple of Ravenclaws holding hands in one corner, coming across a seventh year Gryffindor painting glasses on to a statue of a wood sprite, and almost tripping over Professor Flitwick whose nose was stuck in a book and who didn’t even seem to notice, Draco finally found the perfect place. Three stone walls kept out the wind and an unoccupied wooden bench provided a place to sit.  A small window in one wall gave a nice view of the central courtyard but was covered enough by a stunted elm that few people would notice you looking out.

“Heisenstoof,” said Draco, his spell warming the area enough to make it bearable. Plopping himself down on the bench, he ripped open the silver envelope.  The letter was slightly longer than the usual short notes that his father sent, but it wasn’t any more satisfying.  Draco was craving one his father’s boring yet strangely reassuring letters, ones that gave just a collection of information about what things were like back home.  Instead, his father wrote:

> _Dear Draconius:_
> 
> _I trust that you are well. I have heard reports that you have been achieving a degree of success in some of your classes.  Of course success is to be expected.  I encourage you to strive even harder, especially in those subjects where you don’t seem to have a natural aptitude.  Remember, success at school usually leads to success later in life._
> 
> _I am aware of your holiday schedule and arrangements will be made to transport you from King’s Cross Station back to the estate._
> 
> _There will be a gathering at our home over the holidays. Some of the families of your classmates will be there._
> 
> _Lucius Malfoy_ _  
> _

The letter was signed with a great flourish. Draco folded it up and slid it back into the envelope.  Closing his eyes, he leaned back, trying to get comfortable, though the rough damp stone walls made this quite difficult.  Lucius seemed to be remarkably well informed.  Were several people, professors even, passing on information?  Or was his father just guessing?  Was this ‘gathering’ a coincidence or was it all related?

“Hello.”

Draco, eyes flying open, sat bolt upright.

“Relax,” giggled Daphne Greengrass. “I’m not going to light you on fire.”

“Good.” Draco gave a forced laugh.

“Are you okay?”

The question surprised him. “…Sure.  Why?”

“It’s just that I was sitting over by the fountain and I was watching you walk back and forth across the courtyard. You looked a little glum is all.  And it isn’t the first time.  I’ve seen you walking around sometimes.  Sometimes you just look sad.”

“I’m not,” Draco lied, but Daphne didn’t look convinced as she pushed his feet off the bench and sat down. After she stared at him for a few seconds Draco admitted, “Okay, maybe a bit, sometimes.  I mean I guess… I feel… I don’t know.  It’s like…”

“Like you feel lonelier here than you did at home, even though there’s lots of people around?”

“Yeah. That’s sounds weird, but it kind of sounds right too.  Do you feel that way?”

“Sometimes.”

Daphne pulled off her glasses and started cleaning them on her robe.

“I get these letters,” Draco held up the silver envelope, “but they don’t really say much. It makes me wonder what’s going on.  Sometimes I wish I didn’t get any.”

“Oh don’t say that. Lots of people never get letters.  You really don’t want that.”

“Do you miss your family?” Draco asked.

“I miss my sister.” Daphne reached into her robe and pulled out a picture and passed it to Draco. A pretty girl with freckles, like her older sister, smiled and waved at him.  “That’s Astoria.  She’ll be coming to Hogwarts too, but not for a couple of years yet.”

Draco stared at the photo, turning it different angles to get better light. “She’s cute. Seems very cheerful.  I wish I knew a few more people like that.  You’ll have to introduce me when she comes.”

“Have you got one?” Daphne asked, accepting the picture of Astoria back and tucking it into the folds of her robes.”

“What? A sister?  I’ve got a couple of them actually.  Their names are Ember and Shade.”

“Let’s see what they look like.”

“I wish I could show you. I didn’t think of packing any photos before coming here.  I wish I had.”

“That’s okay. I’ll just imagine a shorter version of you in a dress,” she teased.

Draco laughed.

“We should probably get going before we miss lunch.”

Even though nothing had really changed, as he left the courtyard Draco felt a little better knowing that someone else was feeling homesick too.

 

*

 

The Mimicry potion they were mixing on the first Friday morning in December was actually quite simple except for the part that called for the breath of three rats. Of course, it was very difficult to actually get rats to breathe into a potion.  So it was no surprise that the room was soon crawling with the escaping animals. 

Grabbing any passing rat they could, students tried and tried to coax some air out of little vermin lungs. Crabbe tried squeezing them, while Greg tried stuffing the rats into the potion itself which resulted in his getting bitten by a rat for a second (and then a third) time in a single Hogwarts term.  Draco had a little more luck holding a wiggling white rat upside down and shaking it like a salt-shaker.

Happy to finally be done his potion, Draco handed it in and made his way to the back table where Hermione was sitting, having finished her potion a half an hour earlier.

Potions class was about the only time Draco got to talk to Hermione anymore. As the weather had gotten colder they’d met less and less often out on the lawn.  Worse yet, since Halloween, Hermione seemed to be spending all of her free time with Weasley and Potter so that if Draco did see her he had no desire to sit down and chat.

“What is wrong with Blaise?” Hermione asked as Draco slipped into the chair next to hers.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, just look at what he’s wearing,” Hermione nodded towards where Blaise was wrestling a wriggling rat, his dark legs sticking out of an outfit that looked more like a short dress than a Hogwarts uniform.”

“Oh that? I don’t think those are his.  He’s wearing a loaner.  The girls burnt his robe right off his back.”

“What?”

“Yeah, torched the thing. It didn’t seem to hurt him though.  I’m not sure where they got the spell from but I heard that someone lit Professor Snape’s robe on fire at the Quidditch match as well.  Do you reckon it was them practicing the spell?”

Hermione, with a wide-eyed expression that looked at the same time flustered and guilty, answered, “Oh no, I’m sure they didn’t do that. I mean he’s your Head of House.  They wouldn’t dare do something like that to him.” She turned her attention back to Blaise.  “Anyway, that explains the robe, I suppose, but why isn’t he wearing any pants?”

“That I can’t tell you.”

They both giggled, drawing glares from several students including Longbottom who had just lost his rat up his sleeve and assumed they were laughing at him.

Draco and Hermione continued to chat for the rest of the Potions lesson, mostly about their plans for the upcoming Christmas holidays. All too soon Professor Snape was announcing to the class that they were dismissed and Potter was calling “Come on” to Hermione.

Draco, however, made no move to pack up; instead he just sat and watched as the class left.

Professor Snape, silently waving his wand, somehow seemed to convince all the rats, including the many who had found their way into hidden corners of the classroom, to voluntarily march back into the cage they’d been in when the class had begun.

“Is there something on your mind, Draco?”

“What’s that, Sir?”

“You’re not working on a potion. You’re just sitting there.  I wondered if perhaps you wanted to talk about something.”

Not wanting to admit that he was just brooding about Hermione going off with Weasley and Potter, Draco said the first thing that came to mind. “Is it true that you wanted to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?”

Professor Snape stopped waving his wand but the rats kept marching into their cage anyway. He walked, limping slightly, over to where Draco was sitting. “Yes, I did.  Though I am quite satisfied teaching Potions.  Why do you ask?”

“What happened to your leg, sir?”

“Nothing important. Just a small accident.  But back to your first question.  Why do you want to know if I wanted to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

“I was just wondering, is there such a thing as the Dark Arts?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just something my father told me before I came here. He said there really wasn’t any such thing as _Dark_ Arts, that all magic was the same.  Is that true?”

The last rat entered the cage, reached back and neatly closed the door with a small clicking sound.

“Do you doubt your father?” Professor Snape’s voice sounded casual but his black eyes were attentively fixed on Draco’s face.

“No, no, not at all. My father is… is… he’s a great man.  But, I just wondered.  Maybe you know more about it, is all.  I mean, if it’s true, why are so many people against the Dark Arts?  Dumbledore won’t even let them be taught at the school.”

Professor Snape took a long time before answering. “As you have rightly observed, there is a range of opinions on the subject.  Are some spells inherently immoral, even evil?  Personally I agree with your father.  Magic is magic.  Dark things can be done with it but what is important is how it is used, not the magic itself.  A murder could be committed with a rock, but that doesn’t mean the rock is evil.”

“Or that rocks should be banned or that students should never be allowed to study them,” added Draco, hoping that Professor Snape would be pleased with this contribution to the conversation. But instead of praising Draco for seeing the wisdom of his argument, the way Lucius had done when the two Malfoys had had the same conversation months before, Professor Snape just flopped back into a chair and absentmindedly formed a tent with his fingers.

“On the other hand, Mr Malfoy, it is the duty of a student to study. I suggest you don’t discard this subject entirely.  Seek out other opinions and views.  Perhaps your research will only confirm your father’s argument even more.  Perhaps not.  Either way, I would be very interested to learn what you decide on the subject.”

 


	12. The Christmas Rally

The last few weeks before the Christmas Break passed by slowly, each one seeming longer than the one before, but finally all of the first year Slytherins (except Dianna) found themselves crammed into a single compartment on the Hogwarts Express. Large wet flakes of snow streaked past the windows, giving the impression of a sideways blizzard. Occasionally the quiet countryside was interrupted by a piercing whistle from the train.

“Why do they do that?” complained Millicent Bulstrode, whose face almost always wore a look of disdain. “I mean, if the Ministry of Magic is so eager for Muggles not to know we’re here, why blast our whistle all the time?”

There were a few mumbled responses about how maybe Muggles couldn’t hear it, or maybe they would think that it was just a regular train, but the conversation went nowhere. For a group of children embarking on a Christmas vacation, everyone seemed surprisingly subdued, almost depressed. Several of them were asleep or half-asleep, stretched out across benches. Greg was slumped over, holding in his lap the same box that he’d carefully carried when they traveled to Hogwarts back in September.

Blaise lay on the floor watching snowflakes melting on the window, forming patches of water that grew bigger and bigger before suddenly getting blown across the glass in a streak of liquid. “I wonder if my mother has a new husband yet.”

Instead of commenting Draco stood up and made his way out of the carriage.

“Where’s he going?” Blaise asked.

“Where do you think?” retorted Crabbe. “I suspect he’s going to a room where most of us go to do some special business and then, hopefully, he’s going to wash his hands. I’m not sure if you’ve heard of it.”

But in fact Draco wasn’t doing any ‘business.’ He wound his way down the rocking corridors, looking through the windows of each compartment until he found the one containing Dianna, who was going to spend Christmas with an aunt in London. She was sitting with Carrie, Ivy, and Kate from the practice Quidditch squad, and they seemed to be having a much better time than the people in the first years Slytherin compartment, at least until Draco came in.

“Hi,” he muttered. Everyone nodded.

He’d hoped he’d have a chance to talk to Dianna alone but that didn’t look like it was going to happen.

“I… ” he began slowly. “Ah, what I mean to say is… ” This was harder than he thought it would be. “…is…”

“That you’re sorry for calling me a Mudblood and you’ll never do it again,” said Dianna matter-of-factly.

“Uh, yeah.”

Suddenly the girls all broke into big grins. “Too right you won’t,” said Kate as she gave his leg an affectionate push with her foot.

Dianna stood up, took an ominous step forward, and suddenly grabbed him around the middle, lifting him up with one arm and ferociously rubbing the top of his head with the other. “It’s okay. Sometimes little punky kids like you say stupid things.”

“Hey! Put me down!” Draco was sure that given enough time he could respond with a cutting-yet-brilliant comeback to this insult to his size, but he was here to make peace, not war. Besides, compared to these girls, he probably did seem like just a little kid.

“Put me down. I brought you a Christmas present.”

Dianna placed him carefully onto the bench. “Oh, goody.”

“What did you bring me?” asked Kate.

Ivy piped up, “I want mine first!”

Draco knew they were just teasing, so ignoring everyone else he reached into a pocket of his school robe – which he still hadn’t gotten around to changing out of – and pulled out a small brown box wrapped with a red ribbon, thrusting it at Dianna without a word.

Dianna flicked back her long black hair and carefully inspected the box as if the wrapping would give some clue about what was inside.

“Open it,” yelled Kate.

Dianna untied the red bow and opened the box. She held up a small phial containing a thick bluish liquid.

“It’s nothing special,” said Draco. “It’s a Levitation potion. I made it myself. We don’t get a lot of chances to go shopping at Hogwarts.”

“You made this?”

“Yeah, in Potions class, but I don’t know how good it will be. It’s my first try so I don’t even know if it’ll work.”

“I think that’s very sweet,” Dianna said as she leaned over and surprised Draco with a kiss on the top of his head.

Draco flushed red, roughly the colour of a stop sign. He hoped the girls wouldn’t notice but they obviously did.

“Might as well try it,” said Dianna, unstoppering the phial and taking a small test sip.

Everyone watched with anticipation but nothing seemed to happen.

“Tastes okay,” she said, drinking the rest down.

At first nothing seemed to happen and Dianna was about to say something reassuring to Draco when she noticed a strange tingling in her right leg. “I think it’s working.”

However, if it was working, it quickly became obvious that it wasn’t working quite right. Dianna’s leg began to rise but the rest of her remained exactly where it was. Soon her leg was sticking straight over her head in an impressive, though painful looking, example of the splits. But her leg didn’t stop there. It continued to rise, now dragging the rest of Dianna upside down, until it bumped against the ceiling.

Dianna seemed to be taking this predicament well and didn’t actually sound angry when she said, “Draco, I hate you.”

She managed to maneuver herself so she could hold on to a luggage rack, where she spent the rest of the trip with her leg floating in the air.

Luckily, by the time the Hogwarts Express was pulling into its final destination, the potion had mostly worn off. Dianna’s leg was acting more like a half-filled helium balloon, sometimes rising slowly, sometimes sagging. With some effort she could force it down, though she found it easier to exit the train while hopping on one leg.

The rest of the students poured out of the train, most rushing quickly into the arms of waiting parents. The platform buzzed with greetings and questions.

“How was your term?”

“Come and give your mom a hug.”

“Did you miss me?”

“Oi, look at how you’ve grown.”

Draco began to feel a little nervous after scanning the crowd a couple of times and not spotting his father. He noticed that Crabbe was being met by someone much too young to be his parents, probably a family servant, and that Greg had already sat down on the platform to wait, obviously having found no one familiar in the crowd. He felt a sudden flush of embarrassment as he realized that almost none of the kids who had family excitedly waiting for them were from Slytherin House.

“Draconius, you keep looking around but I’m standing right in front of you.”

Draco froze and it took his mind a few seconds to process what he was seeing before he jumped into the arms of the beaming woman standing there. “Mother! I didn’t know you’d be picking me up. I’ve been looking for Father. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. I was hoping to surprise you and I guess I did,” said Narcissa Malfoy.

As she snapped her fingers, a short hunchbacked man hurried forward and collected Draco’s things.

 

*

 

The house was still and very, very dark. Draco pushed the thick blankets off him and crawled down to the end of the bed. He doubted if he could see his hand in front of his face but he began a tentative search anyway. Patting his hands down at the foot of his bed he was rewarded by coming across a box. His mouth spread into a big invisible grin as he began to rip it open. Pulling off the covering, he reached for the present itself just as the room suddenly filled with light accompanied by an ear-piercing crack.

Temporarily blinded, Draco closed his eyes tightly.

“Merry Christmas, Master Malfoy,” squeaked Dobby’s shrill voice.

“Do you live in my room, Dobby? Don’t you have better places to be?”

“Master knows that Dobby wants to watch over him, make sure he is safe, help him find all his presents. Oh, I see that Master has already found all of them. Let me help Master count them. One. Maybe we should count them again. One. Oh a much better Christmas than normal isn’t it, Master?”

Before Draco could say anything there was another loud crack and the house-elf disappeared.

Dobby’s words didn’t have much sting because, in truth, Draco was pleasantly surprised even to get one present. His father felt roughly the same about Christmas as he did about birthdays.

After tilting the box over, a crimson lunascope and a plain white envelope fell onto the soft surface of the bed. Draco briefly inspected the lunascope, feeling a lot happier than most children would about receiving a piece of school equipment for a present, then reached for the envelope. He opened it, expecting a card inside, but instead a tiny translucent image of Narcissa Malfoy shone out of it.

It looked around the room, winked conspiratorially, and whispered, “Merry Christmas, my son, my only child. I heard that you’ve got a fondness for astronomy so I picked this up for you. It isn’t much but I hope you like it anyway.” When it had finished speaking, the image faded away, leaving only a trace of white vapour.

Draco tried closing and re-opening the envelope again but nothing more happened. After inspecting the lunascope for another minute Draco crawled back into bed, feeling pleasantly cozy under the covers.

While he lay in his bed he reflected on his first week back home. It had started off rather oddly. He’d been driven back in a car by the same hunchbacked man who’d been with his mother at King’s Cross, on what had been a crisp clear winter evening. But the closer they’d gotten to the Malfoy Estate the grimmer it had gotten. By the time they’d taken the unmarked turn off of the Avebury High Road, thick black clouds filled the sky, occasionally lit up by huge flashes of lightning.

Lucius Malfoy was waiting for them in the entrance hall. He gave Draco a small nod by way of greeting and then grumbled to Narcissa, “Would you please go deal with this?”

“I think this should solve the problem,” Narcissa smiled, holding up a lemon. She walked off down the hall without another word of explanation.

An awkward silence fell over the two men.

“You haven’t lost any more cauldrons, have you?” Lucius finally said.

“Er, no,” answered Draco, looking down the hallway in the direction his mother had gone. “What’s going on?”

“Yes, I suppose you haven’t heard, having been away this last while. Well, I have no idea why – in fact no one does – but it appears that your sister Shade’s moods have some impact on the weather. Most people think that it’s just a coincidence, but every time she gets really angry we have storms, and every time she’s happy it gets sunny.”

“Is she angry?”

“Horribly. Apparently I ate the last wedge of lemon without asking her.”

“That doesn’t seem so terrible.”

“Well, she’s just turned five,” Lucius grumbled and then after a minute of silence added quietly to himself, “It is most annoying.”

Sure enough Shade did cheer up, both when she found out that her brother was back from Hogwarts and when she got a new lemon. And, coincidence or not, the rumbling of thunder soon faded away.

Over the next few days Ember and Shade dotingly followed Draco everywhere, badgering him to play games, look at things they made, tell them about Hogwarts, or just watch them doing stuff.

Whenever Draco looked at Shade her ‘moonstone birthmark’ reminded him of Potter’s lightning scar. Luckily, Shade didn’t seem to have anything else in common with Potter.

Ember loved to show off how good she’d gotten on the Cleansweep Junior practice broom Draco had given her. She had gotten to be a pretty good little flier though she was sometimes out of control. One time, when she was showing Draco how she could fly backwards, she bumped into a statue and promptly lost her grip. She tumbled into the fountain below, letting the broom drift away. It took several owls to drag the broom (which didn’t seem to want to return) back to the house.

While Draco’s sisters seemed to trail everywhere behind him, Draco was doing the same to his mother. Like Lucius, Narcissa was not a parent that played a lot with her children, or even interacted with them much, but she didn’t seem to mind it when they just hung around near her. She would write letters at her cherry wood desk while Draco sat on the floor, sometimes doing nothing more than staring off into space and feeling happy about having his mother home.

Sometimes Lucius would walk in and give a snort of disapproval, obviously not happy that his son was just sitting around wasting time. Not that Draco knew what else he should be doing. He was ready to do whatever his father wanted, but they hadn’t actually talked that much, except for some general polite exchanges.

“Breakfast is ready, Master,” Dobby interrupted Draco’s reminiscing.

Draco wasn’t fooled for a second. He knew breakfast wouldn’t be ready until Ember and Shade got up, but he started to make his way down to the kitchen anyway. Why did Dobby make breakfast for his sisters? Did he actually like them?

Before reaching his destination, Draco heard a knock on the front door. He considered answering but Miss Mave hustled past, with a quick nod, and beat him to it. She ushered in a group of young witches that had been specially hired to clean on this Christmas Day. Within minutes the house had been transformed from its quiet darkness to a beehive of bustling activity.

The reason for this activity was tonight’s rally. Draco wasn’t exactly sure what to expect. All he knew was that at yesterday’s dinner Lucius had announced, “This rally will be the largest gathering of supporters in years. Draco, you will join us.”

It had been an order, not a request, but either way Draco was excited and he got more excited as the day went along. Decorations were put away to be replaced by fancier decorations. Chairs appeared out of nowhere and were placed strategically around the house. As the afternoon wore on, bowls of exotic foodstuffs began appearing, occasionally disappearing again whenever Dobby showed up.

Just as the sun was setting, sending a few last weak golden rays through the panes of glass above the doorway and into the entrance hall, Shade and Ember were sent away to their bedroom with orders to stay put for the evening and everything finally seemed ready. Just in time too as there was a rap on the door announcing the arrival of the first guests.

Lucius Malfoy himself answered the door, greeting Wilfred Goyle by grasping both his hands and holding them in his while leaning close and whispering something. The stocky man, mouth hanging open as usual, gawked at the hallway. For the occasion it had been decorated with black banners embossed with the silver Malfoy family crests, replacing the usual pale portraits that hung here. Sputtering black candles gave the area a sombre rather than a festive appearance.

Draco was happy to spot Gregory Goyle tailing behind the man. Greg also saw Draco and briefly raised his hand in greeting.

Soon a steady stream of visitors were crossing through the front door and making their way deeper into the house. Some people arrived alone, like Professor Snape, but if it was a family that came in it was always the father who entered first, followed by his sons, if he had any, then his wife, and finally daughters. As the girls came in they kept their heads down, looking at the ground, raising them once they were inside.

Some of the men merely exchanged greetings or quick pleasantries with Lucius before moving on. Others showed more intimacy with the host.

Draco stood silently next to Lucius for a long while as the guests filtered by, but once the flow declined to a trickle, he slipped away, hoping to find one of his classmates, a surprisingly large number of whom had come with their families. It wasn’t easy to get around, though. The cavernous home of the Malfoys seemed crowded tonight, and Draco soon found himself stuck in a corner of the library, wedged in by a pair of elderly wizards intensely engaged in their own conversation. Draco felt too awkward to interrupt or push them aside so he just stood there, head in, as if he was part of the group too. Fortunately, the topic being discussed was of interest.

“I know Weasley claims his blood is pure but just look at the way he lives and you can tell there is some taint in the family. He’s got a good job, as do his two eldest, yet the family behaves as if they don’t even have enough money to buy robes for the children,” grumbled one of the wizards, the loose skin on his face sagging and making him look even more angry than he sounded.

“Seems to have enough Galleons to go on a Christmas vacation to Romania, though,” the other harrumphed.

“Sure! And enough for his collections.”

“Which should land him in Azkaban if it wasn’t for the fact that those fools at the Ministry keep letting Weasley change the laws to suit himself. But mark my words…”

The pair were interrupted as a witch with a tall pointed hat and a scattering of long chin hairs – giving the impression that she had just stepped out of some poorly written fairy tale – intruded on the conversation.

“Edward, you old windbag, how have you been? Say, maybe you can answer this question. Did they ever find out who was trying to steal the Philosopher’s Stone from Gringott’s last summer?”

Draco took advantage of this distraction by shinnying along the wall and escaping the trap. He began to move about trying to spot familiar faces. The first person he found was Crabbe, who immediately began complaining about how obvious it was that the raspberry tortes hadn’t been made from freshly pressed berries. While nodding to give the impression that he was at least listening if not overly sympathetic, Draco spotted Pansy Parkinson standing on the far side of the library. Her trademark smile was still there but her eyes looked nervous. Her face actually gave the strange impression of someone who was smiling but about to burst into tears. Draco gave her a small wave, hoping to cheer her up a little.

Pansy’s father, a short balding man only a bit taller than his own daughter, immediately began whispering intently into Pansy’s ear. Draco was concerned that he’d somehow gotten Pansy into trouble and was about to slip off to a different room when he noticed Pansy’s father put his hand on her back and push his daughter out towards the centre of the room. Pansy made her way across the room, circling around little knots of people engaged in low conversations.

“Good evening Draconius. I would like to thank your family for inviting us,” she said in an oddly formal tone.

“Er, you’re welcome,” Draco answered, noticing Pansy’s father still watching hawk-like from across the room.

“I really like your robes, they really suit you.”

Draco had been handed new robes just an hour earlier and he hadn’t actually noticed anything special about them, but he glanced down as if admiring the cut and answered, “Thanks.”

There was an awkward pause. Pansy drew a breath as if she was about to say something else when a whisper started racing through the crowd.

“It’s time.”

People immediately began to make their way out of the library. Though many of them had never been to the Malfoy’s home before, they all seemed to know where they were going. En masse they made their way to the large ball room. The usual sparse furnishings had been removed for the rally. The wooden floor was bare, except for a small raised area with a podium, only large enough to allow one person to stand comfortably. The large black drapes were still there, drawn across the windows to shut out any prying eyes. The empty floor and unadorned walls gave the impression of a large box that was being slowly filled by a parade of dark-clad figures

When it appeared that everyone had made their way into the room, Lucius Malfoy climbed up to the podium, and looked down on the assembled crowd. An intense hush fell across the room. Despite the many people present, Draco suddenly became aware that he could hear his own heartbeat. Though people were obviously waiting for Lucius to speak, Draco’s father just stood on the stage. Time passed, but no one made a sound. No one seemed to shift or clear their throats. Some were beginning to close their eyes, but not from boredom but rather with a look of concentration on their faces. Finally, Lucius Malfoy began to speak.

“Muggles.” Lucius paused, to let the word sink in, before continuing. “ There are thousands of them for every one of us. They threaten to push us out of this world, of which we are the rightful masters. And yet, these foetid masses continue to breed. And our brother wizards encourage us to do… what? Nothing? Hardly. Doing nothing would be far too generous. They want… no, they demand… that we do _less_ than nothing. They order us. That’s right, order us – the elite of the wizarding world, the greatest species that has ever set foot on this planet – they order _us_ to bow down to the Muggles. To not just let them be, but to help them, to encourage them. To allow them into our homes. To treat them as equals, as laughable as that notion may be. And, if these Muggles should manage to have some freakish offspring that can manage to channel even the rudiments of magic, then we are expected to welcome them into our schools. To teach them everything about our world. Indeed, we are expected to let them rise, and even to accept it when these Muggle-born rise so high that they become the masters, giving them the power to tell the pure-blood wizards what is right and wrong, and what they can and can not do. What _we_ should and should not do. Then these blood traitor wizards and their cherished Mudblood wards go even further. They tell us that it is acceptable to betray our birthright, our sacred trust, our own blood. They tell us that Muggle and wizard are the same. That these two races – and mark my words, there have never been any more different races on this world of ours – that these two are _the same_. That you, each and every one of you, is no different from a Muggle. So, they say, go ahead and mix. Fall in love. Marry. Have children. Mix your blood. Keep mixing until there is no pure-blood left.

“This is not new. This has been going on for generations. And look what has become of us. Today there are only a handful of purebred wizarding families left. Look around! The people in this room represent all that is left of a once-great race. A group not just destined, but _chosen_ , to rule over all species, all creatures. The rest of our kind have fallen, have mixed, passing on to their offspring the worst traits of both the wizarding world and the Muggle world, creating a race of fools. Creating wizards who may have some skills in magic but have no sense of purpose, no sense of propriety, no sense of destiny, no values at all. They are a mockery of what we should be, what we still might be. They are addicted to vice. They are addicted to laziness and idle pleasure. They think we should do nothing with our gifts. The half-breeds want nothing more from this world than to eat, drink, sleep, and then eat some more. We are made for more, so much more!”

Goblins, dressed as if ready for combat, were moving through the crowd now, carrying silver trays. On the trays were thin crystal flutes filled with a frothing blackish-blue liquid, each giving off a slight wispy fog. As the goblins approached, people took a glass, downed the elixir in one swallow, and put the glass back on the tray upside down.

Draco heard Blaise whispering to his mother, “What is it?”

She answered, “It sharpens you, my son. It brings out what is inside, makes you more aware of yourself.”

Draco didn’t like the look of the concoction, but when a tray was thrust in his direction he could feel many eyes surreptitiously watching him. Trying his best not to show any fear or hesitation he grabbed a crystal flute and drained the contents.

“We must not think of the past,” came Lucius Malfoy’s voice, “but of the future. We must not become those who hide in dark places and curse what has befallen us, licking our wounds and thinking about what could have been. We must accept what is and have the courage to lead our way out of it. I give you an example. We know that blood has been mixed. Yes, there are even those who stand amongst us tonight who are not of pure-blood. Yet, you are not the enemy. You recognize your impurity. You are willing to do what it takes to rid yourselves of the Muggle within. To cut out the disease that has entered your body, just as we want to purify society.”

Draco’s head swam. Sound seemed faintly distorted and it was hard to concentrate. No, it wasn’t hard to concentrate, it was hard to pay attention to the specific words. But it was easy to feel the words. For the first time ever Draco became very aware, very terribly aware, of how those words were affecting him.

“We can’t expect to dominate until we have purified the wizarding world.”

It struck him hard, more jarring than if he’d been hit with a brick, just how right his father’s words were. Why should pure-blood wizards be ignored? “There are values that have been recognized and accepted for centuries. And now they are scorned, heaped with disdain. Instead, we are the ones who must listen, submit, obey, and every year it only gets worse – a descent into filth and depravity.”

Draco listened both more closely and less closely. Feelings of anger, betrayal, and forced, unwanted guilt raced through his body. He was only dimly aware of the speech now, words drifting in and out of his mind like he was on the verge of falling asleep. Only he wasn’t falling asleep. In fact, he felt just the opposite. His body felt keyed up like never before. Heart pounding, his emotions surged as if they’d been bottled up for too long and were reveling in a freedom suddenly given.

“How much patience should we have? How much tolerance? We have been taken advantage of time and time again. It is time to stop. It is time to assert our right to rule. It is time to end the mixing, the debasement of our entire race.”

There was yelling now. People on the floor were shouting encouragement to Lucius Malfoy. Some voiced their agreement with what was said, or shouted out examples. People’s faces were contorted, some with masks of anger, others grinning uncontrollably.

“There are those that accuse us of hating the Muggles and their Mudblood offspring, or even worse slander, of _fearing_ them. But our only hate is for those that would deny us our rights, deny us our values!”

An excitement filled the room. A strange energy, like a wave of pure emotion, swept past. The wave connected everyone, so the entire group felt as one, experienced as one. Yet, simultaneously each could feel their own feelings burning inside, separate and distinct.

Draco’s internal sensations had become so strong they were almost palpable. Each emotion was clear, intense, and ready for him to explore – to touch, to feel. Anger rose inside him and he studied it for a while. After an immeasurable amount of time he let it go and allowed a feeling of power to wash over him. He felt like he could do anything. He felt like screaming out, or maybe he already had. Then he felt it. A still stronger emotion, as if it was standing in front of him and beckoning to him. He knew what it was: it was hate. He looked at it for a few moments and then allowed himself to be immersed entirely. It was glorious. In hate there were so many things. Redemption. Importance. Self-Righteousness. Strength… Limitless Strength.

“The Dark Lord knew all these things. He put into form what we all felt and thought. He led us and guided us. We all dream of the day when the Dark Lord may again walk amongst us.”

Lucius Malfoy’s gaze paused briefly on Professor Snape. After a moment he continued. “But in either case we must not forget the mission. Our vision of the world can not be discarded. We may need to look to new leaders.”

This time Lucius’s eyes found Draco and lingered for a second.

Draco’s mind spun. Me? Did my father just hint at me being the future of… of… of all this? No! I imagined it.

Still, a part of him, deep inside, felt a surge of confidence.

“I could be the next Dark Lord,” he whispered to himself. For the moment it seemed not only that it could be true, but that it was a very good idea.

Draco’s fantasizing was interrupted by the babble of voices. He was having trouble concentrating again. It appeared that his father’s speech was now over and everyone seemed to be engaged in boisterous conversation, disjointed pieces of which drifted in and out of Draco’s consciousness.

“I am not kidding, the fool actually said that Squibs should be allowed to live amongst us. I mean it can’t get worse than that…”

“They have no idea how strong we really are…”

“Of course the Dark Lord had some people tortured. Not enough if you ask me. Just look how things turned out…”

“Good evening, Draco.”

It took Draco a few seconds to realize that he wasn’t eavesdropping anymore and that someone was addressing him.

“Oh, Professor Snape.”

Unlike everyone else in the crowd, Severus Snape didn’t seem to have a strangely excited face pasted on. He looked much the same as he always did.

Draco admired his control and he tried for a moment to erase his own broad grin, but it was no use.

“How did you like your father’s speech?” Professor Snape’s tone was even, controlled like his expression, a sharp contrast to a man standing a few feet who felt obliged to shout everything he was saying and was so excited that bits of spittle were rocketing out of his mouth, although those gathered around seemed to either not notice or not mind.

“Oh,” began Draco, struggling (with limited success) to remember exactly what his father had been talking about. “It was great. I liked it very much.”

“So you agree with all the things he said?” Professor Snape spoke quietly but clearly.

Draco had no trouble understanding him despite the din all around. In fact, it seemed for a moment like the noise had faded off into the distance and that only the two of them were really still in the room.

“Yes, of course. I mean why wouldn’t I? Why wouldn’t anyone?” he heard himself saying.

Professor Snape, looking unconvinced, studied Draco’s grinning face for a moment and then nodded curtly. “Well put Draco. Well put.”

The noise rushed back like a raucous waterfall.

Draco never wanted this evening to end.


	13. Uncle Aklion

Draco woke up knowing something was very wrong. He felt exhausted, not as though he hadn’t been asleep long enough, but as though he’d been struggling all night. His face felt wet as if he’d either been sweating or crying in his sleep, or both.

There was something else too, something horrible inside. He had to wait until he was awake enough to identify it so it took a few seconds before he realized that it was the hate. It was still there, inside him, but it was mixed with other emotions, ones he hadn’t felt last night. Shame. Revulsion. Embarrassment. Even fear.

He was sitting up on his bed with the covers thrown back, panting and sweating despite the fact that it had grown cold overnight. The ice had formed beautiful crystals on the windowpanes and there was just enough light outside now to illuminate their beauty, but Draco didn’t notice.

“I’m going to throw up.”

He raced for the bathroom desperately trying to remember something from school, some kind of spell that would help him now, but he didn’t even know where his wand was. Professor Sprout had taught them something in Herbology class about the leaves of the Sussex Midnight Fern. But Draco didn’t have time to find a fern. In fact, it turned out that he didn’t even have time to reach the bathroom.

“You were always the most handsome of the Malfoys.”

Draco, down on all fours, was not surprised to hear Dobby’s grating voice. He could always be counted on to show up at moments like this. Didn’t house-elves ever sleep? Determined not to give Dobby more satisfaction than he already had, Draco didn’t respond. He forced himself to his feet and scanned the room for his wand, finding it in the dim light.

“Evanesco.”

It was a spell they’d learned for cleaning out their cauldrons at the end of Potions class and it wasn’t particularly effective at cleaning up the mess in Draco’s room, much to Dobby’s amusement.

“Don’t tell me that the Malfoys have produced another Squib.”

Draco shot Dobby an angry look but still refused to speak.

“Yes, another Squib like your uncle Aklion.”

Draco couldn’t hold back any longer. “That is one of the stupidest lies you’ve ever come up with. Now get out of here.”

“Don’t believe me? Maybe you should pop in and visit him, then. I’m sure your dear uncle would love to see how you’ve grown up. He hasn’t been invited around lately, after all.”

Dobby reached out and seemed to pluck a small lime-green card out of mid-air. He offered the card to Draco, but when the boy showed no signs of coming to take it, he gave it a casual flick and the card looped across the room and slid neatly into the breast pocket of a shirt hanging in Draco’s closet.

“As always, have a wonderful day, Master.” Dobby disappeared with another ear-splitting crack.

Draco just shook his head and crawled back into bed. He lay there for another hour wishing he could fall back asleep, but knowing he wouldn’t. He never could once he’d woken in the morning. Finally giving up, Draco chose a burgundy robe from the row of clothes that had been laid out for him by Ms Mave. Putting it on and sliding into his slippers, he began stalking around the quiet house. Expecting to meet no one at this early hour, Draco was surprised to come across his father studying an ancient painting depicting some scowling, long-dead relative.

Lucius Malfoy turned and asked in an oddly jovial tone, “Too excited to sleep, Son?”

“I…”

“It doesn’t matter, I’m glad you’re awake. I want to talk to you alone, just man to man. Come with me.”

Lucius guided Draco to the study and indicated that his son should sit in an oversized – and very comfortable – leather chair before sinking into one himself behind his mahogany desk.

Draco was wondering what had happened to the little stool he’d been forced to sit on the last time he’d been invited into this room.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” Lucius asked, his lips curling upward in a somewhat frightening smile. “You always feel this way the morning after. Some call it the ‘Totschein’ which translates literally as death shine or death glow. It refers to the death of doubt, the end of all the uncertainty that usually clouds the mind, leaving one with this wonderful clarity of thought.”

Clarity? As soon as he was reminded of the night before Draco could feel a resurgence of all his strong emotions rising up again, but his mind didn’t feel _clear_ at all.

Draco noticed that Lucius’s face had turned a darker shade and he realized that his father was still waiting for him to answer the question about whether or not “it” felt good. He knew that “no” was definitely the wrong answer so despite the turmoil inside, Draco said slowly, “Yes, it feels… it feels powerful.”

Well, that was true anyway. It did.

“Exactly,” added Lucius, his smile returning.

“Was it that potion that I drank – that we all drank – last night? You know, the dark elixir that the goblins passed out… is that what causes it?”

Lucius picked up a white quill and rolled it back and forth with his fingers. “Yes and no, Draconius. If you had taken the drink alone you’d probably notice no effect whatsoever, but it helps you feel what those around you feel. It gives strength to collective ideas.”

“So their ideas come into you, take you over?”

“No, no, not at all.” Lucius dropped the quill on the top of his desk. “It is true that you have a heightened sense of what others feel, that you even understand why they feel the way they do, but the reaction you feel is entirely your own.”

Seeing that Draco still looked confused, Lucius – showing more patience than he usually did – continued levelly, “If someone were to sit down and tell you about the things they love, the things they hate, and then explained to you why they feel that way, what brought them to appreciate the things they love, what made them resent the things they hate, you could listen and then do what you want with it. You might nod politely and never give it another thought. You might think what a fool the person is. Or, if their arguments were sound, if what they said made sense, you might alter your own views to be more like that person’s. The elixir does the same, and is far less time consuming. You simply got a sense of how the people you are with feel, and why, but how you react to that is entirely within you.”

Draco nodded. His father’s explanation helped him relax. He hadn’t realized how tense he was, but the emotions and the confusion had scared him.

“I’m proud of you, Draconius.”

“Proud, sir?”

“Yes. Many of the people you talked with commented on your intelligence, to say nothing of your enthusiasm. Then, of course, there was our conversation. I thought you were surprisingly eloquent – well, eloquent for someone your age at least.”

A rush of memories from the night before came flooding back. The rally had gone on long into the night and Draco remembered eating, drinking, and having many loud conversations. But a lot of what was said seemed hazy. He could only vaguely remember his conversation with his father, something about telling him how great his speech had been.

Although the exact words were hard to remember, the feelings of the night were easy to recall. It had felt good, and why shouldn’t it? He suddenly felt foolish for being nervous and embarrassed this morning. Last night had been a great event. And his father was proud of him. Draco didn’t realize it, but a big grin spread across his face.

“And to think that your mother didn’t want you there. She thought that you were too young. But it is obvious to me now that in this, as in so many things, I was right and she was wrong.”

Draco usually favoured his mother in conflicts between his parents but he felt a swell of pride at these words.

“Since you are clearly old enough, there is something else I need to discuss with you.”

Lucius began to play with the quill once again. It was an odd behaviour for him and perhaps it showed that he was unsure about whether to continue, but he seemed to come to a decision in his mind and slapped the quill down on the desk for a second time.

“Some believe that the Dark Lord is returning. Some would even go so far to say that he _has_ returned.”

“Really? Has someone seen him?”

“No, but there is the mark. The mark given to those who were most loyal to him.” Lucius unconsciously lifted his right hand and massaged his left forearm. “From time to time some have said they have felt their marks tingling. They interpret it as a sign that the Dark Lord is trying to make contact, but that he is too weak to do it properly. Of course, there are many other possibilities. The tingling may be caused by some mere echo of magic still resonating long after his death, or perhaps it is nothing more than a fact that over time the marks grow old and itchy. Then there is another theory that there are really no tinglings at all. That any feelings are caused by wishful thinking.

“Which do you believe, Father?” Draco sensed this moment required formality.

“Until a month ago I was sure it was total imagination. I believed that because some people began to talk about it, others tricked themselves into feeling something that wasn’t there, or perhaps even began lying about it because they didn’t want to seem to be the only ones feeling nothing. But since then I have felt it too. I know it was no itch, but it was certainly no clear magical message either. I honestly don’t know what it means.”

“Father, would Professor Snape know the truth?”

Lucius Malfoy looked stunned. “Why would you say that?”

“I overheard you talking with Greg and Crabbe’s fathers at King’s Cross Station, when you brought me to catch the Hogwarts Express. I think this must be what you were talking about. One of them, I forget which one, said something about wishing they could ask Professor Snape more about it.”

Another smile, although not necessarily a pleasant one this time, crept over Lucius Malfoy’s face. “Very good Draco. An excellent job of listening and learning. Maybe we can make good use of those skills. People will say anything around a boy of ten – or is it eleven? Well, a boy of your age. They don’t think anyone so young is listening.”

Draco beamed. “Is it because Professor Snape was closer?”

“What?”

“Would Professor Snape know more because he was closer to the Dark Lord? Were they friends?”

“No, certainly not. For one thing the Dark Lord never had ‘friends.’ He just wasn’t that sort of person. Besides, Severus certainly wasn’t closer to the Dark Lord. Nobody was closer to him than I was, and even I wasn’t what you would call a friend. No, the reason why Severus may know more is simply because he spends most of his time at Hogwarts. Many who have felt their mark tingling swear that the feeling gets stronger when they get closer to Hogwarts.”

“Did you ask him if he knows anything? If he’s felt the tingling?”

“Of course we’ve asked him. He’s probably sick to death of being asked that question. But he always answers the same. He says that he’s felt nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Yes, nothing.”

A strange thought popped into Draco’s head. “Are you telling me this because you want me to find the Dark Lord?”

Lucius laughed. An honest laugh, not a polite chuckle as a punctuation to a conversation. “Yes, yes, that would be great. Find the Dark Lord and bring him back here no later than, say, Thursday.” Lucius folded his fingers together on the top of the desk. “No Draco. I am telling you this because you are old enough to hear these things. You’ve proven that to me in the rally and again today. It is time for you to be trusted.”

“Trusted?”

“Yes, trusted. Why do you keep repeating the last word I say?” Lucius’ tone of jovial pride seemed to have faded in favour of the more familiar tone of impatient irritability.

 

*

 

Over the next week, things were more subdued in the Malfoy household. The novelty of having Draco back seemed to have worn off. His sisters weren’t so interested in having him join in their games. His mother, while still happy to allow him to hang around her, seemed busy either reading or writing. His father again grew distracted with “business” and was rarely seen around the house. Even Dobby seemed less interested in baiting him.

Draco whiled away the hours either wandering around the house, as he had so often done in the past, or just sitting in whatever room that his mother happened to be. He felt content just watching Narcissa as she wrote seemingly endless letters to people that the younger Malfoys had never heard of.

It was quite a change from the bustle of Hogwarts where there always seemed to be something – some class, some activity, some meal – coming up any minute. At least the quiet gave Draco time to think.

Over the last few days the strong emotions he’d felt during and after the rally had faded somewhat, but the weight was still there, like a heavy stone – a stone filled with anger and hate. Draco couldn’t help but spend many long hours thinking about this.

Sometimes his mind would go down one path, embracing the hate. He would think about all the arguments he’d heard about how his kind – pure-bloods – had been picked on, bullied, ignored, and a feeling of self-righteous anger would burn inside him. At these times he would make vows to become as powerful as he could so that he could live up to his father’s expectations.

At other times his mind would be filled with doubts. He could still feel the anger and hatred but he wasn’t exactly sure who he was supposed to hate or why. And he found himself wondering whether the pure-bloods’ way of running the world would be so much better. Thinking this way, however, made him feel nervous and even a little queasy. He tried to push the doubts away but they kept coming back.

It was during one of these times that Draco decided that he wanted to get out of the house. Maybe some fresh air and a new kind of privacy, away from the dark walls and claustrophobic corridors, would help him feel better. He started to head out for a walk, thinking he would maybe visit the owls, when he remembered his Comet Two Sixty.

Excited about something for the first time in days, he rushed back in. He couldn’t wait to take a spin on his own broom instead of on one of the dented and splintering sticks they handed out at Hogwarts. He told his mother where he was going but she just nodded vaguely, not really indicating whether she’d heard him or not. Then he set out hunting for the Comet. He tore his room apart but it wasn’t there, so he made his way to his sisters’ bedroom.

The girls shared a room, even though there was plenty of space in Malfoy Manor. Hanging on the handle of the oak door was a twinkling sign that said “Shade and Ember’s room.” Every few seconds bright yellow letters flashed on it: “You May Enter.” Draco knew, from past experience, that it was important to listen to the sign. He’d once opened the door when the sign was flashing “Keep Out” and the resulting shock had not only singed his eyebrows but had left his teeth numb for several days, a feeling he hadn’t known was possible before then.

“I’m not playing anymore,” Shade announced. She was stretched out on her back and was still wearing her pajamas even though it was the middle of the afternoon.

“Oh come on,” Ember cajoled. “If you catch the Snitch you could still win. Well, no you wouldn’t. You just wouldn’t lose too badly.”

Draco was amazed to see a scale model of a stadium, with fourteen figures whizzing around chasing Bludgers and Quaffles, on the floor of the girls’ bedroom.

Ember was holding a small blue stick that looked like a very tiny wand, and was waving it wildly in the air. “Fine. I’ll catch the Snitch then, Shade.”

“It’s no fair. You always win,” Shade grumbled back.

“What is that?” Draco said, feeling more than a little jealous.

“It’s a Quidditch game,” Ember answered. “Dobby gave it to us for Christmas.”

“Crikey,” Draco muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.

“What’s crikey mean?” asked Ember, still guiding a miniature Seeker after a still smaller Snitch.

“I don’t know. It’s just something Crabbe always says.”

Dobby hadn’t given him any Christmas presents but Draco had actually been happy about that. Dobby would never have given him something like this, not unless it was broken first.

“Dobby likes us,” Ember announced, sensing Draco’s puzzlement.

“Or he’s scared of us,” Shade added.

“Either way, it’s good,” said Ember with a smile. “Do you want to try it out?”

“Sometime, definitely,” said Draco, “but I was just going to go for a ride on my broom. I haven’t used it since the summer. Do you know where it is?”

“Sure, it’s right here,” Ember said, pointing under her bed.

“Why do you have my broom?” Draco asked puzzled.

“I use it sometimes. That practice broom doesn’t let me go very far,” she said with a shrug. “Dad said it was okay.”

Draco was too stunned to comment, so he just fished out his Comet Two Sixty. He noticed it had a few new nicks on it but the shiny black broom still looked beautiful.

“Striking the harp will put you in great peril. Flee or be consumed.” This was Ember’s voice though it came out in an eerie monotone.

“…what?”

Shade flopped over on her back. “She’s just making another prediction.”

“What does it mean?”

“I don’t know. That you’re going to be eaten by somebody who is mad at you for hitting their harp… or I am… or the Quidditch game is, I don’t know who she was talking to.”

Ember just sat there with glazed eyes. Draco waved his hand in front of her face but she didn’t move.

“Just wait, she’ll come out of it soon,” Shade said, rolling over onto her stomach. “Then she’ll be able to tell us what she saw.”

“Uh… okay… maybe I’ll just ask her about it later.”

Draco’s strong urge to get out of the house, along with the certainty that his sisters were teasing him – and that he’d almost fallen for it – propelled him out the door.

He kicked off after taking only two steps outside. Rising up into the air he was almost immediately engulfed in a wet mist and within seconds he could only catch glimpses of the estate through the low swirling clouds clutching at the ground.

Draco wondered if the weather had anything to do with Shade’s mood. Either way it would be good cover from any prying eyes.

Draco flew on, not really paying attention to where he was going. The cold drizzle hit his face and then formed into droplets that crept under his robes and caused his body to shiver, which seemed like a perfect accompaniment to a growing foul mood.

Why wasn’t his home the same place for him that it was for his sisters? Theirs was a world of brooms, games, presents, and fun. If people paid attention to Draco it was usually just to give lectures, make requests, or scowl disapprovingly about something he wasn’t doing quite right.

He’d been flying for about half an hour, still thinking of good reasons to feel sorry for himself, when he became aware of something poking into his chest. He felt around and discovered that what was irritating him was a hard lime-green square of paper stashed away in his shirt pocket – the same note that Dobby had flicked into Draco’s closet.

The note didn’t have any writing or markings on it, save for a single thick black arrow. It was clearly magic because if the paper was turned the arrow turned as well, always pointing in the same direction, like a compass needle that seeks out north – only it didn’t seem likely that this arrow was pointing north. Draco considered just dropping the note, letting it drift down through the clouds and land on whatever happened to be below him, but instead he thought, “Why not? I’ll play Dobby’s little game of warmer-warmer-colder and see where this leads.”

Holding the paper on the shaft of the broom, Draco used the arrow as a guide. After he had flown for another half an hour, just as his patience was beginning to wear thin, the arrow suddenly spun around and pointed back the direction he’d come from. Draco banked his broom and reversed direction, and the same thing happened again a few seconds later.

Draco realized that he must have just passed over the point the arrow was leading him to, and sure enough, when he pushed his Comet Two Sixty down into a deep dive, it once again pointed straight ahead. Breaking out of the clouds, he saw the thatched roof of a small house rushing up to meet him. Draco pulled up hard, whipped past a chimney that was belching out wood smoke, and circled the structure a few times. Dobby’s arrow circled just as quickly, making it quite clear that this was where it wanted him to go.

Draco landed lightly in the front yard and climbed a short flight of creaky stairs. In the mist and the growing darkness it was hard to tell whether there were any other houses nearby. Shrugging to himself, and with no idea of what to expect, Draco knocked.

A short woman with glasses opened the door. “Yes?”

Draco hadn’t thought about what he was going say and all he could manage was, “Er…”

She looked him up and down, taking note of his robes and broom. “I think you want my husband.” She raised her voice. “Adam, I think it’s for you.”

Moments later a man appeared in the doorway. Like his wife he had round wire rimmed glasses, but otherwise he was her opposite, being thinner and much taller. Instead of dark black hair, his was silvery blond, almost white.

“Who are you?” he began. Then he answered himself. “…Draco? Yes, it must be young Draco! You would be about this age by now. Well, obviously you are! Please, come in,” he added, putting his arm on the boy’s shoulder and gently guiding him into the house. “Krystal, would you please put on some tea?”

Draco entered cautiously as if the man and the woman might attack at any moment, and was shown into a room with a brown shag carpet, a sofa, and a soft armchair. In one corner was a fireplace crackling away. A contented grey cat sat near it and showed no interest whatsoever in the new arrival. In another corner of the room was a box with a moving picture of a middle-aged man yammering away about how some suspect had been seen fleeing in red truck. The man was starting to explain how the truck matched a vehicle seen earlier by somebody, but Draco never heard the rest. Adam had pointed a small object that looked like it might be a squat wand at the box, causing the pictures to continue moving in silence.

“It’s a television,” Adam explained, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “Please do have a seat, lad. It is Draco, isn’t it?”

“Er, yes,” said Draco.

While Draco plopped down into the armchair, leaning his broom against its side, Adam nestled himself gingerly into one corner of the sofa and placed his hands on his knees. “Do you know who I am? I would think that you would as you’ve found your way to my home, but… well no offense intended, but you look a little confused.”

“Er, no,” answered Draco. He thought about explaining about Dobby’s hints and the lime-green note but decided against it.

The man studied Draco for a few moments, then broke into a reassuring grin. “That is understandable. I doubt my brother talks about me very much and since you were only one year old when last I saw you, I doubt you’d remember me on your own. I guess formal introductions are in order. I am Adam Nelson, at least that’s what people in the real world – or as you would call it, the Muggle world – call me. I used to be known as Aklion Malfoy. It is a name that is a bit unusual for the Muggle world so I changed it. Although, I must admit, nothing personal, I was happy to leave the name Malfoy behind.”

“So you’re my…”

“Uncle, yes. Lucius is my brother. My younger brother, though he always lorded over me like he was the eldest.”

“But that’s not possible! My father doesn’t have a brother. He was an only child. I’ve heard him say so himself.”

“Of that I have no doubt. But don’t mix up reality with the protocol of those so called ‘pure-blood’ wizards.”

“Protocol?”

“Er, the acceptable way of saying things so people won’t take offense. For example, I bet that sometimes your parents call you their _only child_ , even though I’ve heard – though I have never met them – that you’ve got younger sisters.”

“Yes, but that’s just a way of talking. It doesn’t really mean I’m an only child.”

Aklion pushed his glasses up again. “Exactly, very true. Exactly. People say it, though in fact it isn’t true and many people know it isn’t true, but still they say it. But there is meaning behind those words. Why do people speak as if Lucius has no daughters? It is obviously not ignorance, nor is it just a cute quirkiness of dialect. No, it is because it is considered polite to speak that way, because in the pure-blood wizarding world, the only children that are considered to really matter are the sons. So, to be polite, you act as if the sons are the only children. It is considered rude to bring to someone’s attention that they even gave birth to girls. Likewise, if there is a Squib in the family, everyone just speaks as if that person doesn’t exist. To be sure, many people are bound to know that they do, but you speak as if they don’t. And in fact, this can be a rather effective way to erase an embarrassment from the family. Case in point – almost all the adults in your life know about me, yet you apparently had no knowledge of having a Squib for an uncle.”

Aklion finally fell silent, but Draco didn’t know how to respond. He was stunned at the realization that his own uncle was a Squib, an offspring of magical parents who couldn’t use magic himself.

“It’s hard to believe that my father, your brother, would just… well, you know,” Draco mumbled weakly, at the same time wondering how he would treat Ember or Shade if they couldn’t use magic, or frankly, how they would treat him.

“Well, it is very embarrassing for him and the family. Our father, may he rest in peace, felt exactly the same. I was a bit younger than you when it became obvious I couldn’t use magic. I was sent away with instructions never to contact the family again, though some people, including Lucius, did keep in touch now and then. At first, I was very bitter. Oh, how I used to rant and rail, cursing my family, shouting insults. But over the years, I’ve forgiven them, as best I could. In fact, now what I mostly feel for them is pity.”

“Pity? You pity my father?” Draco said incredulously, glancing around at the simple cottage that was Aklion’s home.

“Yes. It must be very hard living in a world that doesn’t really exist, while protocol dictates that you always have to pretend that it does. A world where proper wizards only have sons, a world where pure-blood wizards are always more powerful and more intelligent than everyone else, a world where Squibs don’t exist. Lucius must get very tired of pretending that all the things that don’t really fit into his world view never happened.”

“I didn’t even know that pure-blood families could produce Squibs.”

“Well they can. Although I very much doubt our family is entirely pure-blood. Another one of the things that you pretend is true but don’t really talk about.”

Aklion rose, crossed the room, and picked up the grey cat by the fire. The feline still looked completely disinterested. He brought it back to the sofa and settled it on his lap. Stroking the cat’s fine fur induced an audible purr.

Aklion’s wife came into the room bearing a tray with a steaming green kettle and a couple of heavy pewter mugs. “I’m not sure if you like tea, Draco, but help yourself if you do.”

She set the tray down on a low table between the sofa and armchair. “I’ll just leave you two to chat then. I imagine you’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

As Krystal retreated back into the kitchen Draco asked, “When did you see me? You said that you hadn’t seen me since I was one.”

Aklion nodded as he reminisced, “Ah yes, that is a tale worth telling. That, young Draco, was a surprising night. Even more surprising than your sudden arrival on my doorstep this mid-winter. I hadn’t heard from my brother for a very long time, years certainly. I was under the impression that the break was complete and that I would never hear from him again, when one day near the beginning of summer, in the pelting rain, Lucius was knocking on my door. He had his wife – your mother, Narcissa – and you, a tiny toddler just barely learning to walk, and a handful of belongings. He asked if the three of you could stay, and stay you did.”

Aklion pointed to a doorway in the corner of the room near the fireplace. “In fact, that was your bedroom right there. You stayed for about three weeks. I remember the time fondly. Oh, and the way you stumbled around the house, always crashing over but getting right back up again. You were a cute child, but I suppose everything small is cute. And, believe it or not, I quite enjoyed seeing my brother again, even after everything that had come between us.”

“But, why did we come _here_?”

Aklion scratched the cat’s ears and slouched down even more comfortably. “It was right around the time He Who Must Not Be Named fell from power.”

“The Dark Lord?”

“Yes, it was right after _the Dark Lord_ ,” – Aklion said the words with a healthy portion of scorn – “as some people call him, fell from power. Something we heard about even here, as removed as we are from the wizarding world. Obviously that had something to do with why your father fled here but he didn’t want to talk about it and I didn’t really press him. But something had clearly happened. He was nervous, agitated, always pacing around, not at all like his normal self. He would disappear for hours and then return without saying a word about where he’d been. I wasn’t too worried though. I knew that whatever situation Lucius finds himself in, he would adapt. So I wasn’t surprised when one day he announced that the three of you were leaving, and off you went, quick as that.

“This was obviously not a place he wanted to be or felt comfortable in, but he was always polite, even deferential. Our discussions were often strained, but interesting.”

Aklion’s brow furrowed as he dredged up an old memory. “I remember one evening he told me that I was the reason he’d named you Draconius.”

“ _You_ were the reason?” Draco asked. “I don’t understand.”

“You know something? I don’t either.”

The room grew quiet as Draco tried to absorb what he had heard. It seemed almost unbelievable. He politely poured himself some tea though he didn’t normally drink it.

“Was that the last time you heard from my father?”

“To be honest, I haven’t seen him – or any of you – again. But I get letters from time to time. They are never signed but I’m relatively sure that they originate from Lucius. They are usually quite short, with just a few pertinent details: if someone was born, if someone died. I’m not sure if Lucius sends them out of a sense of brotherly duty, or just to keep in touch in case he ever needs a place to hide again.”

Draco took a tentative sip of his tea. It tasted bland but not unpleasant. “So you’ve just been banished to the Muggle world. I don’t know if I could handle that.”

Aklion startled Draco by laughing out loud. He leaned down and helped himself to some tea as well. “Oh my boy, my boy, it is not nearly as bad as you imagine. There are plenty of wonders in this world that wizards can only dream of. Besides, it’s not really a banishment – more of a career change. Many people do it. Granted, in my case it was a bit forced, but to be sure, many Squibs do it to avoid the prejudice they would otherwise face. Others do it as well. There are a lot more Spanners than you would guess.”

“Spanners?”

“Wizards who choose to live in the Muggle world and secretly use their magic to get ahead. Some actually get jobs as magicians, entertaining audiences who think that they are just seeing clever tricks and illusions. Some take up sports, magically enhancing how high they can jump or how far they can hit a ball. You’d think that the novelty would wear off after a while, but each to their own, I suppose.” Aklion leaned over and picked up the small object that Draco had thought might be a wand, though he could now clearly see that it wasn’t. “Actually, maybe I can show you. I remember there was a tournament of a Muggle sport called golf on earlier. Well, no surprise that the top player is a Spanner.”

Aklion pointed the device at the television and begin pressing buttons. As he did, the images changed, moved, and often began talking through the screen.

Many young wizards would have been shocked to see this. Making fun of all the things Muggles couldn’t do was a regular activity in the Slytherin common room. Blaise, in particular, loved to point out how Muggle pictures couldn’t move. Draco knew this wasn’t really true as he’d often seen screens like his uncle’s television as he passed through the Muggle city. He hadn’t, however, realized that Muggles could call up what seemed like an infinite series of scenes through these devices. Draco was impressed, but kept his silence about it.

After a few minutes of skipping between images Aklion announced, “No I can’t find anything right now.” However, instead of turning the television off, he left it playing.

Draco stared at the screen, a bit puzzled by what he was seeing. After a few moments he realized that the figures in the picture were people, but ones that looked different than any he’d ever seen. They were misshapen, longer than they should be, perhaps. No, not long. Some of them were just unbelievably thin.

“People are starving everyday, but you can do something about it,” came a voice which was suddenly silenced as the screen went black.

Draco shot a glance at Aklion. “Were those… real people? I mean… what was wrong with them?”

“Sad, isn’t it?” Aklion sighed. “They’re just not getting enough food. To be sure, there are some nice things about living in the wizarding world. The Muggle world does have its share of problems. So many problems. Of course, wizards could easily solve a lot of them, but they won’t.”

“Why not?”

Aklion snorted with derision, though he obviously enjoyed finding a receptive audience.

“There are two sides in the wizarding world. There are those who follow in the ways of He Who Should Not Be Named, admiring him despite all the violence and horror he brought into this world. And there are those that oppose him and the ideas he stood for. The two sides act like they are completely different. Good and evil, right and wrong, Dark Arts and Bright Arts. One side would tell you that the Muggles are beneath wizards. That Muggles just aren’t worth helping. The other side would tell you that Muggles are admirable and every bit our equal, but still, that it is better for everybody if we just hide from Muggles altogether. Two supposedly completely different viewpoints but the end result is the same. If Muggles have problems we won’t lift a finger to help them. Just two different ways of finding an excuse to be selfish, if you ask me.”

From somewhere deeper in the house a clock began to chime, reminding Draco just how long he’d been gone. He stood and announced that he had better get going. As he offered apologies for his hasty departure and thanks for the unfinished tea, an unsettling thought pushed into his head: what if his father somehow knew where he was?


	14. Searching for Secrets

The wind flung tiny ice crystals around with wild abandon, mixing snow whipped off the ground with flakes still falling heavily from the sky. Draco stood at a window on the fourth floor of Hogwarts Castle looking down at the distant white surface of the lake which was obscured by the swirling gusts, but he hardly noticed the scenery just as he hardly noticed the cold emanating from the thin glass window that he leaned against. His mind was elsewhere, mulling over the recent events.

He’d been so looking forward to going home, but it hadn’t been what he wanted or needed. In his mind he’d half-expected to come back to a place where everyone sat together, talking, listening to stories about their son’s adventures at school, playing games. But his family wasn’t like that. The Malfoys didn’t interact much with each other at all. Instead, they simply seemed to co-exist.

His gloomy mood was interrupted as he remembered the trip back from his uncle’s house and a self-deprecating chuckle rose in his throat. He’d left in a hurry without asking directions, and with only the feeble light from his wand. Within minutes he was hopelessly lost, surrounded by a blanket of thick fog and darkness, and in utter panic about how his father would react to finding out about Draco sneaking off to visit an uncle he wasn’t supposed to have.

He’d raced blindly for a few minutes. Believing he was flying high above the trees, he was quite surprised when he’d found himself slamming into a snow bank. Lying there, getting steadily more chilled as the snow melted into his robes, he almost started crying. Realizing that he had no other choice, Draco pulled out Dobby’s lime-green note and was happy to see that the arrow was still there. Resigned to following it back to Uncle Aklion’s house, Draco was surprised when the arrow instead led him back to the Malfoy Estate. Somehow it had known that his business was done.

During his last few days at home Draco had been paranoid that his father would somehow guess that he’d been to visit Uncle Aklion, but if Lucius did, he said nothing. Draco had tried hard not to give him the opportunity either, staying as far away from his father as possible. In other families this might have been suspicious but Lucius Malfoy didn’t even notice.

It wasn’t until it was time to go that father and son had another real conversation. Lucius, attired in a suit the colour of fireplace ash, stood at the entrance to King’s Cross Station. The incessant murmur of Muggles, all of whom seemed to be in a desperate hurry, gave them a modicum of privacy.

“Aren’t you coming in with me?” Draco asked when it became obvious Lucius wasn’t.

“You are a little child no longer, and we both know that a man doesn’t need to be walked right to his platform.”

The words confused Draco. He wasn’t certain that his father was not being sarcastic, though there was nothing in his tone or manner that indicated it. Without thinking, Draco surprised himself by blurting out, “You don’t think I’m grown up. You didn’t even let me use a broom until I was eleven, but you let Ember use it now and she’s only eight. Do you trust her more?” In his mind he was thinking, ‘Do you like her better than me?’

“Well, I see now that there is still plenty of child in you.”

Draco flushed as his father continued. “What does it matter if your sister plays at flying and wastes her time with toys? I expect little from her anyway. Draco, you are my son – my only child. The reason I treat you differently is that I hold you to higher standards. At times that may make it appear that I am unkind, but I only act that way because I know that you are capable of achieving great things, and it is my duty to push you in the proper direction.”

Their eyes met. Draco was about to apologize but Lucius cut him off. “I know what you’re really asking.”

“…you do?”

“You’re asking if I love you.”

“No I wasn’t.” Draco was lying but Lucius seemed to see through it.

“The answer is, no, I don’t love you, Draco. Love is just a coarse simpering platitude usually bought with baubles. No, for you I feel something much greater. I feel respect for you. Oh, I will admit that I have had my doubts about you in the past, but you impressed me at the Christmas rally. You have earned my respect and I trust you will continue to do so.”

Torn between disappointment and pride, Draco had no idea how to respond. He stammered, “I… er, thank you… I won’t disappoint you, Father.” And Draco meant it. His father’s declaration of respect had ignited a fierce desire for more of the same.

As Draco stood at the window at Hogwarts remembering, he was struck by the fact that it had only been a couple of days since he’d said goodbye to his father. The abrupt switch back to life at Hogwarts made everything at home seem so far away, like something from the long distant past, especially because things hadn’t changed much at Hogwarts. The first Transfiguration class had been painful as Professor McGonagall seemed to be under the impression that they should have gone ahead and mastered several more chapters’ worth of material over the holidays, which none of them had. Greg was still first to bed and last one up. Even a rude letter from Dobby containing what appeared to be several spoonfuls of rancid butter came on the first day, mailed even before Draco had left to ensure that it would be waiting for him when he arrived.

Noticing a couple of students walking rapidly through the snow towards the greenhouses reminded Draco that he had better get moving too as his Charms class was about to start. He was tired and not looking forward to it, but he pushed himself away from the window anyway and followed a corridor lined with paintings of picnics and sunny summer days. The sound of howling winter winds faded away and Draco could hear the chirp of crickets coming from one of the paintings. He’d never used this hallway before but it did the trick and within minutes he was outside Professor Flitwick’s classroom where Crabbe and Greg were already waiting.

“Ahoy, mate,” Crabbe said cheerfully.

“Ahoy, mate,” Greg parroted.

Darren Macintyre rounded the bend, walking with a seventh-year girl.

“Oh look, all the wee Dobbins are back,” he announced.

“What’s a ‘Dobbins’?” asked the girl, whose name was either Lavina or Darina.

“You know, those little ankle-biter first years that are always skittering about. But look, these ones,” Darren swept his arm out to indicate Draco, Crabbe and Greg as he walked past, “are even standing on their hind legs, just like real people. That’s so cute.”

“Come in, come in, boys,” Professor Flitwick called from the classroom. “Everyone else is settled in already.” They could see him sitting on his tall stool which still just allowed him to peek over his desk.

Today’s lesson involved what turned out to be a relatively simple Growth Charm. Professor Flitwick passed out some Droobles Gumballs to practice on and within minutes almost everybody had made theirs grow, Dianna managing to double hers in size. Unfortunately, the spell didn’t make the gumballs any bulkier – they just stretched them out – which several Slytherins were disappointed to discover when they ate them.

Either because the lesson had taken such a short time to master or because the supply of gumballs was dwindling, Professor Flitwick didn’t stop them when they started trying out the charm on some other personal objects. At least he didn’t do anything until Crabbe tried out the spell on Theodore Nott’s pants, causing them to almost fall off. Theodore, holding his pants up with one hand and blaming Daphne Greengrass, who was laughing loudly at him, cast the same charm on Daphne’s belt. Unfortunately it backfired and instead of growing, Daphne’s belt began to constrict in steady jerks around her waist. Each time the belt tightened she let out a higher pitched shriek. Theodore looked honestly concerned but had no idea how to stop the belt. With everyone yelling at him, and some of the girls casting spells trying to shrink Theodore’s head, Professor Flitwick finally took control of the situation. With a couple of waves of his wand everyone was back in their chairs, their clothing all back in place and the proper size.

For the rest of the class time the Slytherins were allowed to try out whatever spells they wanted from the Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1), but only after they’d all promised not to try anything on each other. The girls spent the time trying to make flowers grow out of the classroom tables but only managed to get a few blades of grass to pop up.

Blaise and Theodore showed off a spell that made the few remaining gumballs bounce three times and then explode. Professor Flitwick didn’t look overly happy about this but he didn’t stop them.

As the last gumballs were destroyed one by one, Greg, Crabbe and Draco settled on trying out a spell with the intriguing title of Gecko Grip. Pulling off their shoes and socks, the three boys were soon taking turns tapping their hands and feet while intoning “Climbis Hawa.” They would then drop their wands and attempt to scuttle up the wall of the classroom. It wasn’t an easy spell, which explained why it was right at the back of the book. For a time they either got nowhere at all or only managed to get a few feet up the wall before they would skid back to the ground.

This lack of progress was disappointing at first, but they eventually realized that getting better wasn’t necessarily a good thing. When they managed to make the spell last longer, it just gave them time to get farther up the wall before falling. But despite all the bumps and bruises collected in class, they were back practicing the spell that same evening in the common room. After about the hundredth time of calling out “Climbis Hawa,” and scrambling up the wall, something that was clearly starting to get on the nerves of other students trying to study, Draco finally managed to climb all the way up. He paused triumphantly on the ceiling, and then quickly turned and headed back down, face first, expecting to drop at any moment. Predictably, the spell wore off almost immediately, and he lost his grip and plunged down. He closed his eyes and braced for impact, regretting his decision to face downwards. He only managed to avoid getting seriously hurt by landing on Greg instead.

 

*

 

As January went along, the amount of homework they were expected to do definitely increased compared to before Christmas. Even Greg could be caught doing some from time to time.

When he wasn’t in class, busy doing homework, or going to frigid Quidditch practices, Draco often found himself thinking again about the things his father had said to him over the break, especially their conversation at King’s Cross Station.

Occasionally, remembering some of his father’s harsher words, Draco found himself bitter and full of self-pity. But if he ever caught himself brooding, Draco would give himself a mental reprimand. His father might be strict, but that was only because he had high standards and expected greatness of his now mature son. Draco hoped that he would be strong enough and wise enough to treat his own son, should he ever have one, the same way. And besides, any little hurts could be easily pushed aside by the pride that Draco felt when he remembered his father saying “I respect you.” That was something new; until this Christmas his father had never seemed proud of him. Thinking about it gave him a glowing feeling inside as he repeated to himself, “My father respects me. My father is proud of me.”

It was during one of these times when Draco was thinking about Christmas, lying on his bed, and staring into the dark, that a bold idea popped into his mind.

His father had told him about the marks that those closest to the Dark Lord had. Some people had been feeling tingles in those marks, especially as they came near to Hogwarts. It must mean something. Maybe somebody had found a powerful object that had belonged to the Dark Lord – his wand perhaps. Or maybe… maybe even the Dark Lord himself had returned. That idea didn’t seem impossible. Draco had heard the stories. No one had actually seen him die. No body had ever been found.

Whatever was going on, Professor Snape must know something. He had one of the marks and he lived right here at Hogwarts. He claimed to know nothing, to have felt nothing, but what if he was lying? And, if he was, _why_ was he lying?

Draco sat upright, sweating slightly with excitement. He would find out what was going on. He would somehow find out what Professor Snape really knew. There could be no better way to prove his loyalty to his father. He would make Lucius proud. He would earn his respect.

At first Draco didn’t know exactly what he was going to do. All he could think of was to keep himself close to Professor Snape and eavesdrop on any conversations the Professor might have. He even took to prowling the corridor near Professor Snape’s office. However, this proved to be useless. The Potions Master didn’t seem to have any close friends or confidants at Hogwarts so all Draco overheard was the occasional dull conversation about schedules or classroom supplies. Even worse, Draco seemed to be bumping into Potter and Weasley more and more often. It was almost like they were trying to shadow Professor Snape as well, though Draco had no idea why they’d want to do that.

By the end of the month he realized that his plan, what little plan there was, obviously wasn’t working. Then one evening, while Draco was sitting in the common room struggling to appear interested in a long story about a puppy Tracey Davis once had and how she loved to put different coloured ribbons in its tail, a new idea popped into his head. If Professor Snape was keeping anything secret it was bound to be in his office.

In less than three heartbeats, Draco knew exactly what he had to do and how. He needed to sneak into Professor Snape’s office and search it. Of course the office would never just be left open and unguarded, but there was still a way to get in. He could use the magical hole his mother had given him.

 

*

 

Draco hadn’t touched the hole since September. He hadn’t been able to think of anything particularly interesting or useful to do with it and so he had just left it wadded up in a bundle collecting dust (or perhaps magically transporting dust) under the bed.

Draco tried to use whatever free time he had over the next few days to practice with the hole, but he had great difficulty finding opportunities to be alone. Crabbe and Greg followed him everywhere and he couldn’t think of a reason to ditch them. He considered just telling them what he was up to, but part of him wanted to keep this for himself. If there was any glory in it, he wanted to get it all. Besides, he didn’t want to explain why he still hadn’t told them about the magical hole. If Draco ever did slip away from Greg and Crabbe, Pansy Parkinson had a knack of suddenly showing up.

So it wasn’t until an evening almost a week later that Draco finally found himself free. Greg was down in the Cave, Crabbe had fallen asleep by the fire and there was no sign of Pansy anywhere. Draco patted his robe to make sure the hole was in his pocket and slipped out of the common room in search of a place where he could finally be alone and practice.

Five minutes later, rounding a corner on a set of wooden stairs, Draco almost screamed in frustration as he saw Theodore and Blaise pelting down the stairwell towards him, followed by most of the first-year Slytherin girls.

“Got it back,” yelled Theodore as he raced past, waving Pansy’s red button.

Breathing a sigh of relief when the entire crowd ignored him and thundered off into the distance, Draco made his way steadily higher in the castle.

He finally settled on a room just off of the library. It was one he’d studied in before and he knew that almost no one else came in here. For some reason it was thickly cluttered with cobwebs that no amount of cleaning or magic ever seemed to be able to get rid of.

The first thing Draco found out was that the hole couldn’t be used to go sideways. He managed to stick the hole to the inside of the room’s door but it wouldn’t let him step through it. It seemed that the hole only let you fall through and down.

Resigned to the fact that he couldn’t use the hole to simply step through the door to Professor Snape’s office and that he would, instead, have to drop in through the ceiling, Draco spent the next couple of hours practicing on a beaten looking but still sturdy oak table.

What he discovered was not particularly reassuring. He repeated the experiment that he’d tried with the pillow months ago, seeing if he could poke his finger into the hole and pull it out again. He couldn’t. Once you were in the hole there was only one way to go. What was worse, the more of his body he put into the hole, the more likely it was that it would suddenly – and roughly – pull him completely through and spit him out the other side. Once his hand was in the rest of him quickly followed.

This was particularly disappointing because Draco hoped that he would be able to at least take a peek through the hole into Professor Snape’s office, to make sure the coast was clear, before jumping down through the ceiling. But, after sticking his head through the hole three times, and each time being rudely yanked headfirst through the oak table, and then trying three more times to just poke one eye through and having the same thing happen, Draco gave up on that idea.

Going through feet first certainly was less painful but was still disappointing. It would have been nice to be able to climb through the hole and carefully lower himself to the ground below, but Draco had the same problem with his feet as he had with his hands and head. As soon as one foot was in, he got abruptly yanked through.

Having concluded that the only way to really use the hole was to simply jump in, feet first, Draco tried one more experiment. As he hopped through the hole he tried reaching back and grabbing the hole itself, to see if he could drag it along with him. If he couldn’t, then when he dropped into Professor Snape’s office, the hole would just sit there in the corridor. It would just be a matter of time before some student or teacher would discover it, probably by accidentally crashing down through it too. But, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t bring the hole with him. As impressed as he had been with the hole when he’d first gotten it, after two hours of falling, crashing, and jumping through a table he was feeling like it could have been designed a lot better. In a grumpy mood and silently hoping his mother hadn’t paid too much for the stupid thing, he practiced hopping through the table one last time. Landing in a perfect crouch on the floor he was startled when the door to the room suddenly opened.

Draco snatched his wand out of his belt and stood up, forgetting that he was still under the table and smashing his head on the bottom of it.

“Is that you Malfoy? What are you up to then?” It was Neville Longbottom, the clumsy Gryffindor who had fallen off his broom in the first Flying class.

Draco clutched his aching head and moaned.

“Come on, what are you playing at?” Neville started walking towards Draco. In a few more steps he was bound to see the hole, still sitting on the table in plain sight.

Forcing himself to sit up, Draco pointed his wand and grunted “Locomotor Mortis” through clenched teeth. Neville’s legs froze together and he toppled to the ground with an unpleasant crunching sound.

Though the brochures for Hogwarts never advertised it, many students actually learned more spells from their fellow students than from their teachers. The Leg-Locker Curse was a simple one that had grown quite popular in the Slytherin common room in the last few weeks. In fact it had become quite dangerous to appear to be in a hurry as someone was bound to cast in on you for a laugh.

Draco, still in a foul mood, carefully packed away the hole, gave the table a good hard kick, and then thanked Neville for letting him get in some spell practice.

The Gryffindor was flopping around on the floor like a fish out of water. He stammered at Draco, “I… I’ll… When I get… I’m going to… ”

But Draco had left the room before Neville finally got around to saying what he was going to do.


	15. The Draco Constellation

Although he now knew exactly how he was going to get into Professor Snape’s office, it took Draco two more weeks to find the place to do it. He needed to find the exact spot in the hallway that was over the ceiling of the office, which proved to be a difficult task because even if he could shake all the other Slytherins, someone else always seemed to be popping up. Students or staff always seemed to be bustling by. Worse yet was the school caretaker, Mr Filch, who caught Draco prowling around the lower hallways without any school books a couple of times and, deciding that the young Slytherin was up to something, took to patrolling those levels of Hogwarts even more than usual. This was annoying even though the caretaker was – perhaps for the first time in his career – actually correct. Draco was up to something.

Still, all Mr Filch could do was glare menacingly and move on as no rules were actually being broken. More worrisome were the occasions when Peeves (a trouble-making poltergeist who seemed to have free run of the castle day or night) would suddenly appear throwing firecrackers or singing the Hogwart’s school song backwards at the top of his voice to the tune of ‘Happy Birthday.’ This was irritating enough in itself but Draco was afraid that the racket would attract Professor Snape who might somehow guess what he was up to.

As if all the people (living and dead) getting in his way wasn’t bad enough, the convoluted passageways of the lower levels of Hogwarts made the job of actually figuring out which spot in the castle was directly over Professor Snape’s office even more difficult. The hallways didn’t shift around like the staircases and corridors of the upper levels but they were a chaotic mess of uneven twists and turns. Eventually Draco had to master a spell that allowed him to use his wand to measure precise distances – something he managed to get Professor Flitwick to teach him by claiming that he was considering a career as an architect. All in all it was a great relief when Draco finally decided he’d found the place.

It was a dingy alcove occupied only by a slumping and battered suit of armour. It actually seemed like an ideal spot. It was set off from an infrequently used hallway and the amount of dust on the floor indicated that people rarely came into the alcove itself. That not only meant that Draco could count on not being interrupted, but even more importantly, that it was quite unlikely that someone would accidentally fall through the hole while Draco was in the professor’s office.

It was tempting to just try to get in right away and be done with it, but Draco decided that it would be wise to wait until just before his next Astronomy lesson. Considering the late hour that Astronomy class was held, Professor Snape’s office was bound to be empty. Plus there would be no risk of getting caught ‘prowling corridors’ because Draco would honestly just be on his way to class.

However, when he left for class forty-five minutes earlier than usual the next day, Greg and Crabbe surprised him by tagging along. “Sure we’ll come now, mate. It’s a bit early but if you’re eager to be off then off we’ll go.”

Disappointing as it was to end up spending almost an hour sitting on the floor waiting for class to start instead of carrying out his plan, Astronomy managed to cheer Draco up anyway.

What they were studying at Hogwarts was often quite repetitive and dull, but as thousands of students had already discovered over the years, how interesting and entertaining a course was had a lot more to do with the teacher than with the subject. While Professor McGonagall, with her inevitable foul mood, made Transfiguration feel like a prolonged torture session, Professor Sinistra seemed to have a knack for making Astronomy class whiz by.

During the cold weeks of mid-winter the class was spending less time at the top of the Astronomy Tower and meeting more often in a sixth-floor classroom. The chamber was peppered with star charts along with diagrams of moons and their orbits. Double doors led out to a large balcony where the class could crowd to observe the sky if needed.

“In space, as here on Earth,” Professor Sinistra lectured, “it is impossible to determine which object is stationary as all things simply move relative to each other. It might appear to be true that a meteorite is falling towards the earth, but perhaps the earth is moving up to meet the meteorite. Likewise, when you are running, you may be running across the surface, or perhaps you are running in place and the world is turning under you. The point is, the only way to measure motion is to measure the relative motion between two objects. Logically, the quickest way two objects come together is when they are both moving towards each other.”

“Aurora?” Most of the Slytherins had finally gotten used to using Professor Sinistra’s first name though a few of them stubbornly stuck to using ‘Professor.’ “Why don’t you ever eat in the Great Hall with the other teachers?” It was the sort off-topic informal question that would earn a rebuke or lost house points in other classes, but was welcomed here.

Taking the interruption in stride, Aurora answered with a wink, “Oh, I do from time to time. I just find that the meals are served a little early for my liking. They don’t really fit my schedule.”

“Draconius?” Millicent Bulstrode said in her usual disdainful tone.

“Uhhh? What?” Draco answered back, not bothering to turn his head.

“Not you. Here,” Millicent snarked while pointing at her star chart. “There’s a constellation labeled Draconius.”

“Can’t be a very important one, then,” chuckled Crabbe.

“Actually, believe it or not, it is probably _the_ most important one,” Professor Sinistra interjected.

“Go on. How come?”

“Sorry, I can’t tell you. We study that in third year.”

The Slytherins sent up a chorus of boos and hisses but Aurora continued to protest. “Nope, sorry, can’t tell you. If I did I’d have to kill you.”

But after a bit more complaining Aurora gave a large mock sigh. “All right, all right. You’ve talked me into it. The Draconius, Draco, or Dragon Star is, quite simply, nothing less than the source of all magical energy. This energy flows down to Earth just like water running down a river, only it is invisible and once it arrives here it is dispersed in unseen currents churning across the land, down valleys, through buildings, everywhere. It is this flow that we tap into to do our magic.”

Professor Sinistra sat down at a table in the front of the class. “Here is today’s fun fact. In times past families often named their children – especially their sons – after stars, hoping their children would gain the properties of those stars. So a family who named their son Draconius, for example, might be hoping to ensure that their child was a good conduit of energy – a strong wizard, in other words. That superstition seems to have faded away, however. These days everyone either seems to be named after a relative or just gets some boring generic name that every second person seems to have, like Fred or Harry, so I doubt that your parents were thinking about stars when they named you, Draconius.”

Draco wasn’t so sure. He remembered his uncle Aklion telling him he had been responsible for the name Draco had been given. Was Lucius trying to do all he could to ensure there wouldn’t be another Squib in the family?

Every student in class was paying close attention, a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by Professor Sinistra. “Oh sure, now you’re listening. None of you will remember a thing about relative motion when you take exams. In fact some of you will accuse me of having never covered it in class! But this you pay attention to.”

Dianna, idly playing with her long black hair, asked, “So do spells work better when you’re closer to where the energy is flowing?”

“Some people think so. However, the most popular theory is that wizards and witches are good enough at drawing the energy that they can easily tap into it from wherever they are, but Muggles need to be right in the path to make any use of it whatsoever.”

“Muggles?” half the class burst out.

“Muggles can’t use magical energy! That’s why they’re Muggles,” sneered Blaise, provoking rollicking laughter.

“Oh right. I forgot this was a class of Slytherins,” Aurora said, rolling her eyes. “I am sure that most of your families subscribe to the view that the world is made up of two very distinct types of people, Muggles and… well… us. That kind of makes sense. There are a lot of things like that after all. It’s just basic genetics. Some people are born with blue eyes, some people aren’t. Some people can curl their tongues into the shape of a letter ‘o’ and some people can’t. You’re just born that way and no amount of practicing is going to change anything.”

Predictably everyone in the class was now showing each other their attempts to curl their tongues.

“Look, a perfect circle,” yelled Greg – though with his tongue sticking out it sounded a bit like, “Oog, a erhick erel.”

“Why did I even take this job?” Aurora grumbled. “Oh I remember – because no one else would hire me.”

After the class calmed down a bit Professor Sinistra continued. “However, there is another school of thought. Some believe that magic is more like whistling. That everyone has the ability to do it, but only a few ever really end up doing it well, or at all. According to this theory, wizards and witches are just regular humans who realized early in life, either through dumb luck or because they managed to imitate someone who was already doing it, that they could do magic. Then with practice they got good at it. Muggles are just the people to whom trying magic never occurred, or people who did try it few times but got frustrated and decided that they couldn’t and gave up trying.”

Half the students were listening, while the other half were trying to whistle.

“Now before you all go rushing off to your parents trying to get me sacked by saying ‘Professor Sinistra told me I was no better than a Muggle,’ let me just say that this is just a theory and I’m not saying it’s right or wrong. But I have to admit that research seems to indicate that it was actually Muggles who originally identified that Draco star and made the first – albeit crude – analyses of energy flows. They even named it, calling the energy qi. It’s pronounced “chi” but usually spelled ‘Q-I’ in our language.”

“But, maybe a wizard just told the Muggles about it and they wrote it down,” Dianna commented, still twisting her hair.

“More likely a dragon, actually.”

“A dragon?”

“Yes. They were probably the first ones to understand the nature of the energy and make use of it. Chinese dragons are very different from European ones and they react very differently towards magic. If magic is like electricity,” – a few students looked vaguely puzzled by the term electricity – “then European dragons are like resistors, blocking the flow, as it were. That is why most spells just bounce right off of them. Chinese dragons, on the other hand, seem to be like power lines, channeling the flow, directing it, using it. Another way they are different is that they tend to be much chattier than their Western cousins. While a few here in Europe manage some rudimentary speech, usually specializing in snarling at you to not steal their treasure, Chinese dragons are quite articulate. As well they are apparently a lot friendlier to people, or at least they used to be in times past, which explains why they might have passed some things on to humans.”

“But why would… ”

Aurora raised her hand to cut off any other comments or questions, “Sorry that’s it, end of conversation. Now, as I warned you – since I’ve told you all this I am sad to say that I will have to kill you.”

With a flick of her wrist the door to the balcony flew open, allowing an icy blast of winter wind to tear through the classroom. With another flick Daphne flew off her chair, clutching at her glasses.

“You first, Daphne,” Aurora shouted as the young freckled girl tumbled over the edge of the balcony railing. She was followed quickly by Theodore Nott and Tracey Davis.

The three giggled wildly as, instead of crashing to the ground below, they bobbed up and down like human yo-yos.

“Why won’t you kids fall?” Professor Sinistra complained in a mock angry voice. “All right, all right, I guess you can come back inside then.” With another flick of her wand the three young Slytherins landed in a heap on the balcony.

A snowy owl that had been silently balanced on a neighbouring window ledge kicked off and glided away in search of a quieter perch.

 

*

 

Draco thought Greg must be ill because he had left the Great Hall in the middle of dinner, not even touching his rabbit stew. For a change though, he wasn’t shaking the walls with his snores. Maybe having a cold made it so he couldn’t sleep.

Despite this good fortune, Draco was wide awake and looking out his ‘window.’ It was dark, but even in the dim light from the stars and moon he could see that the snows of the previous months had been replaced with pattering rain. The weather made him realize how much time had passed since Christmas. The fact that he hadn’t yet gotten into Professor Snape’s office agitated him, but he still couldn’t think of a better plan than waiting for the next Astronomy class and trying again. A sudden thought struck him. Why not do it at lunch while everyone (including Professor Snape) was busy? He’d have a clear half-hour at least, probably more, and he could do it tomorrow.

Now fully awake, Draco hopped out of bed and climbed up out of the Cave. The Slytherin common room was only dimly lit because most of the hanging lamps had been damped out for the night. Quite a few people were still up, but only a couple of them were first-year Slytherins.

Millicent Bulstrode was sitting cross-legged on a chair petting Pansy’s cat. Her voice, with no trace of its usual crankiness, carried across the quiet room. “Oh look, it’s a cat with widdle paws. That’s so sweet. I woves this little cat. Does Argyle woves me? Oh, yes he does. What a good cat.” Argyle just blinked his yellow eyes and didn’t answer.

Pansy herself was slumped down on a sofa by the fire reading through a copy of _Young Witch Magazine_. Draco wandered over to where she was sitting. Glancing at one of the bylines, ‘Fifteen Ways to Tell if Your Young Wizard is Cheating,’ Draco knelt down, picked up a thin piece of wood and began to poke at the flames.

Pansy flipped a few pages and then broke the silence with, “You’re probably wondering why I’ve been acting so strangely since Christmas.”

In truth, Draco hadn’t noticed any such thing, but something told him that admitting he hadn’t actually been paying much attention to Pansy was the wrong thing to say, so he just asked nonchalantly, “Why?”

Pansy set down her magazine. She looked quite serious, without even a hint of her trademark smile. Taking a big breath and staring at the fire she said, “My father wants me to be nice to you. He wants me to get you to like me. He says that its important to have good connections with your family.”

Pansy turned her expressive eyes to Draco, looking like she might start crying. “And I don’t want to do that. Not that I don’t want to be nice, but now I feel like if I do or say anything to you it’s part of some plan and I’ll never really know if you like the real me.”

“Relax, Pansy,” Draco said, trying to cheer her up. “Your father didn’t tell you to do anything before Christmas, right? So you were just being yourself then, and I liked you just fine.”

“You liked me?”

Draco, not sure if he was happy about where this conversation was going, stammered, “Er, sure. I mean, maybe I didn’t ‘like’ like you, like love you, but I sure didn’t not like you. If you know what I mean.”

Pansy didn’t really look like she did. She tried to clarify, “So you did already like me?”

Draco, trying to simplify things, just gave a small nod and made a sound halfway between an affirmative grunt and the sound you make when your still thinking things over.

That seemed good enough for Pansy. She broke into a big smile, a natural smile, not like the nervous one she wore at the Christmas rally, and put her hand down on Draco’s, curling her fingers around his. The two of them sat that way by fading fire for a surprisingly long time.

 

*

 

After sleeping for only a few hours Draco felt like his head was full of cotton and, unfortunately, cotton wasn’t particularly useful for thinking with. In Transfiguration, instead of changing a twig into a walking stick he somehow managed to turn it into a walking tick which latched onto Greg’s arm and resisted all attempts to be removed until Greg, much to his delight, was told to leave class and go to the hospital wing.

Charms class was no better. While everyone else in the class made some progress on bewitching the playing cards they’d been given into shuffling themselves, Draco only managed to glue his together. But once class was dismissed and the Slytherins stumped off to the Great Hall, Draco became very alert, his pulse quickening as he faced what he was about to do.

Crabbe plopped down in his usual spot next to Draco while Pansy sat down on the chair usually occupied by Greg. The Great Hall was noisy as students and teachers made their way to their seats, many having their typical conversations about what they hoped would be on the lunch menu. Crabbe was immediately set upon by a belligerent sixth-year named Peregrine Derrick, a boy whose neck was strangely thicker than his head. “So what the ruddy hell does CCLL stand for? Someone told me it was Crabbe’s Cute Lavatory Lamp but I just don’t get that.”

Draco didn’t care what was for lunch and was only barely paying attention to the people around him. He was too busy keeping a careful eye on the staff table. As soon as Professor Snape entered, Draco stood up, grabbed his book bag, and muttered to Pansy and Crabbe, “Sorry guys, I think I’m just going to skip lunch. I’m not feeling too good,” which by now was actually true.

Draco walked quickly – but not so quickly as to attract attention – out the big doorway of the Great Hall, where a strangely pale looking Gregory Goyle was just now arriving.

From there he made his way down to the dingy alcove above Professor Snape’s office, passing no one except for a snooty looking ghost that ignored him.

He almost changed his mind. Voices kept echoing through the corridors, making it seem like someone was about to step around the corner at any moment. He wasted several precious minutes pacing back and forth before finally ordering himself to go ahead. Pulling the magical hole out of his pocket, and taking one more quick look around, Draco dropped through to the room below.

The good news was that he passed through the hole without an incident and found himself in the very room he’d hoped he would – Professor Snape’s office. The bad news was that as he landed, one foot hit Professor Snape’s desk and one foot didn’t, causing him to careen sideways and crash awkwardly onto the floor.

Draco held his breath, wincing in pain, and expecting somebody to come rushing in any moment to find out what all the noise was about. When nobody appeared and some quick experimentation demonstrated that he hadn’t suffered any broken bones, Draco lifted his head and inspected the office.

A fireplace, currently only containing cold ashes and a few half-burnt pieces of wood, was set into one wall. Surrounding that were shelves crammed with beakers and bottles, many containing slimy objects held suspended in coloured liquids. Some of these objects moved unsettlingly in their containers. Over in one corner stood an upright oval piece of furniture that looked like it should, perhaps, contain a mirror though this seemed to hold just a plain piece of glass.

On the desk was a collection of small objects, including parchments, a bowl containing Knuts and Sickles, and a bin labeled ‘Student Assignments’ filled with more than a dozen potions. Draco put his book bag on the floor and flipped through the basket with curiosity. The phials were all labeled “Chameleon” and had various names written on them, some of which Draco recognized as upper level Slytherins.

At that moment, the office door opened.


	16. Seeing What Should Not Be Seen

Professor Severus Snape opened the doorway halfway and turned to speak to someone behind him, sounding a bit put off. “Oh believe me, Minerva, I see the importance; I just don’t much care for your timing. I’m sure waiting half of an hour would not have made one bit of difference. That you need to rush off to a class is not my concern.”

Draco frantically searched for a place to duck, to hide. He took a half-step towards the fireplace then gave up on that idea as mad. Professor Snape would be angry enough to find him in here without coming across a cloud of ash and a dirty boy curled up in his fireplace.

“I don’t think that I’m the one taking a tone. If anybody is… ”

As he cast around wildly Draco’s gaze settled on the basket full of student potions. Snatching up the closest one, and hoping that ‘Sidney Parrish’ knew what she was doing, Draco popped the lid and took a long swallow of a bitter and surprisingly cold liquid, draining about half of the phial.

Immediately he felt dizzy, dropping to one knee for balance. A second later he almost shouted out loud when he realized his leg was missing. But there it was; he could feel it. He held up his hand and for a second he thought his arm had somehow gone invisible but then he realized he could make it out – it had merely changed to the same sooty grey shade as the stone floor. He even had grout lines mimicking the cracks between the stones.

Draco grabbed his book bag which, to his relief, immediately turned sooty grey as well.

Professor Snape stormed into the office, his face livid, and went straight to the desk. Tapping it with his wand he slid a drawer open and began to rifle through a pile of parchments. Minerva McGonagall strode in, her face looking just as tight as Professor Snape’s.

Draco cringed, hardly daring to breathe, feeling relatively confident that if the professors looked directly at him they would notice him there, camouflage or not.

“I know it’s here somewhere,” grumbled Professor Snape, spreading parchments across his desk, while Professor McGonagall leaned over and starting picking at the papers.

The office door hung open, calling for Draco to make a break for it. Moving into a crouching position, he walked as quietly as he could, not looking back, with the hope that if the professors did notice him, they would at least not catch a glimpse of his face.

Once in the open hallway Draco broke into a run. After rounding several corners and hearing no shouts or signs of pursuit, he stopped to catch his breath. Moments later two Ravenclaw boys came around a bend further up the corridor. Draco tried to look as nonchalant and innocent as possible, despite the fact that his heart felt like it was pounding hard enough to shake the castle walls, but the boys walked right past taking no notice of him at all.

Draco looked behind him and saw that he was leaning against a large painting of a group of ladies picnicking on a patch of dark green grass. Looking down, he was surprised to discover that he appeared to be wearing a puffy white dress, like the women in the painting, and it appeared that his left hand was holding a small blue umbrella. With one more glance back to make sure Professor Snape wasn’t hustling along the hall after him, Draco went for a walk, deciding – with a mischievous smile – to have a little fun as he made his way back to recover the magical hole.

Wherever he went his body would change to look just like his surroundings. He could tell that he had form and that he was even visible, but as long as he stuck to the edges of people’s vision and didn’t move, they would simply pass right by. Even when Draco poked books right out of their hands, passersby assumed that their belongings had just slipped, or that Peeves was in the area playing pranks.

When Professor Quirrell came doddering along down a long hallway, Draco, now looking from head-to-toe like dark-grey stone, once again melted against the wall.

Quirrell, as expected, simply shuffled past, muttering indistinctly to himself. However, a few seconds later, he came to a sudden stop. Grabbing his turbaned head, as if in pain, he asked the empty hallway, “What? But I don’t see how you could.” He didn’t have the usual stutter that he had during Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons.

“No, no, of course, I didn’t mean to question,” the Professor whimpered to himself while he slowly turned on his heels, looking back at where Draco was standing.

He stared for a few moments squinting, then his eyes widened.

Professor Quirrell, his stutter back, stammered, “S - S - So there you are. Qu - Quite the D - D - Disguise.”

Draco could think of nothing else to do. He turned and ran in the opposite direction at full speed, ignoring Quirrell’s shouts. After rounding several corners, tearing up two flights of stairs and racing past a half-a-dozen students, all of whom were confused about why a sudden blurry wind had just blown past them, Draco found an empty bathroom. He slipped into a stall and waited for the potion to wear off.

 

*

 

If Professor Quirrell had recognized Draco, he showed no signs of it. Likewise, Professor Snape seemed unaware that anyone had been, albeit briefly, in his office. Both now sat at the Head Table, interested in nothing beyond the salmon casserole that was the main course in tonight’s dinner.

“Look,” Crabbe whispered excitedly.

“What?”

“It’s the button,” he motioned with the tiniest tilt of his head so as to not attract attention. “I can’t believe they’ve just left it sitting out on the table.”

“Who did?” asked Draco.

“The girls,” hissed Crabbe and Greg together.

“The girls? But the last time I saw it Blaise and Theodore had it. They ran right by me with it.”

“Well the girls got it back, didn’t they?”

“How?”

But instead of answering Draco’s question, Crabbe just chuckled, “Watch this.” Slowly reaching his right arm up, he scratched the side of his neck, faked a yawn, and then brought his hand down casually over the button. Only his hand didn’t land on it. A split-second before he could grab the little red disk, it lurched sideways a few inches. He grabbed at it again but it slid a few more inches. It was now directly in front of Greg who tried sweeping the button up with both arms, but again, it managed to slide just out of his grasp.

By now half the table was looking and more and more boys – and not just the first-years – were grabbing at the button, knocking over plates half-full of food and drenching the table in spilled pumpkin juice as the button danced neatly back and forth avoiding everyone until it finally hopped into Pansy’s hand.

“Thank you,” she smiled, smugly clipping the button back on to her robe amidst roars of laughter from the surrounding girls.

The boys slumped back in their chairs in a sullen silence.

“We could just buy our own,” Greg suggested.

“It wouldn’t be the same, mate,” Crabbe retorted.

Greg leaned over and picked three pieces of celery off of a large ceramic saucer.

“Crikey, what’s wrong with you?” Crabbe snatched the celery out of Greg’s hand and put it back.

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, you’ll eat anything. You stuff your face with whatever you can reach. You ate about five cupcakes this meal alone.”

“Six.”

“Okay, six cupcakes, two of them with gravy! But when it’s time to go you’re grabbing vegetables. Do you ever go back to the common room without a head of lettuce in your pocket?”

“Sometimes.”

“Just face it, you’ve got an eating problem. Your problem is that you’ll eat anything. But you know what? That’s okay, you’re still our mate. We wouldn’t care if you ate toothpaste for breakfast. You don’t have to go back to your room every night and hide yourself away eating salad and swearing that you’ll lose twenty pounds starting tomorrow.”

“I’m… I’m not…” Greg was clearly flustered.

“I’m just saying that we see what’s going on. You never let us in your den but we see what’s going on. You’re a bit mental about food but that’s okay.”

Greg got his voice back. “ _I’ve_ got a problem? You’re the one that’s always poking and smelling every little thing before he eats it. When you finally do eat something you’re always complaining about the cooking or the sauce or the blinking ‘presentation.’ I’m not the mental one.”

“At least I’m not slipping carrots up my sleeve every night thinking nobody is noticing.”

“Well, I’m not the one mixing up a béarnaise sauce in my cauldron in class when we’re supposed be mixing an Anti-Hiccuping potion.”

“That was a _hollandaise_ sauce. Everybody knows a béarnaise sauce doesn’t use lemon juice!”

Greg just rolled his eyes and snatched up the handful of celery sticks again.

Crabbe pulled out his wand, “Exceleryarmus.” The celery flew from Greg’s hand into Crabbe’s

“You’re not allowed to use magic during meals.”

Crabbe was looking at the celery in his hand in bewilderment. “I didn’t think that would actually work.”

 

*

 

Crabbe was still boasting about having invented a new spell by the time next Potions class rolled around, even though he hadn’t been able to replicate it – or anything like it – despite attempting ‘Exbuttonarmus’ on Pansy about a hundred times. He cheerfully split his snake scales along with the other students, getting them ready to mix with the sweat taken from a nervous monkey.

As the class progressed Draco and Blaise worked, as usual, more quickly than any of the other Slytherin boys while Greg fell further and further behind.

Across the room Potter and Weasley were only working on their potion if Professor Snape found the time to stand right behind them and prod them on. Otherwise they were busy tossing extra cinchona shavings into Longbottom’s cauldron whenever Longbottom (and Professor Snape) weren’t looking, which was causing Longbottom’s potion to turn a sickening purple colour and boil over onto the table.

Hermione heaved a big sigh to show her displeasure at her tablemate’s antics, ladled some of her potion into a beaker, and brought it over to Professor Snape, stopping briefly to threaten Weasley as he immediately tried to fill his phial from Hermione’s cauldron.

Professor Snape accepted the beaker and inspected the yellowish-brown sludge inside. “Thank you, Miss Granger.” Then addressing the entire class he announced, “Next week we will be attempting a Beginner’s Shrinking Potion. While the actual preparation of ingredients is relatively simple, it requires a great deal of precision and patience in the mixing and heating process. Therefore, if any of you finish early today I suggest you get a jump on next week by working on your ingredients now on the free tables in the back of the class. The potion can be found on page three hundred and sixty-three of Magical Drafts and Potions. Take note that we won’t be using the Grundlewood that the potion calls for. It’s a bit too valuable to waste on a class of beginners.”

“Hey Dianna! Here’s your chance to be the proper size again,” Crabbe whispered.

“Why would I want to shrink down to your size? I’ve seen the way the seventh-years rest their elbows on your head when they’re waiting in line.”

“It would be fun to see what you looked like at our age, though,” Daphne chipped in.

Professor Snape interrupted. “You’re thinking of the Advanced Shrinking Potion, Miss Greengrass. That would, in effect, shrink Dianna by de-aging her. We won’t be attempting to make that potion until third year. This potion would simply make her smaller, though she would continue to look the way she does now. Or it would if mixed properly, so I don’t hold out much hope for most of you.”

A few minutes later as Draco was ladling his finished work from his cauldron into a phial Blaise commented with a sardonic grin, “Just had finish ahead of us again, didn’t you?”

Blaise was teasing, though it was hard to tell with him sometimes, but Greg automatically snapped back, “Shut up Zabini,” anyway.

Draco didn’t really understand Greg sometimes. He didn’t have a lot in common with Draco – in fact Greg seemed to get along better with Blaise – but he’d developed a strange, almost protective loyalty, which certainly had its advantages, especially considering Greg’s size.

Wondering if Greg’s loyalty was some kind of natural friendship or if his family had ordered him to be nice to Draco the way that Pansy’s had, Draco made his way to the back of the windowless classroom and plopped himself heavily down next to Hermione.

Hermione was making tsk-tsk sounds and staring grumpily at Potter’s back. Potter was still trying to land random ingredients into Longbottom’s cauldron.

“I wish they would leave poor Neville alone. They’ve got him convinced that he can’t do anything right.”

“At least it’s only Potter now! Looks like your good friend Weasley is too busy giving us dirty looks for sitting together,” Draco responded. Ron had indeed stopped ‘working’ and was, instead, mouthing some silent words at Draco.

“It doesn’t look like he’s the only one,” said Hermione with a quick glance over at Pansy Parkinson whose eyes were every bit as narrow and angry looking as Weasley’s.

Draco, wondering what Pansy was looking so mad about, could only manage to say, “Er… ”

“Ron can be quite childish,” Hermione continued. “Well really, they both can, but they’re not as bad as you think. In fact, believe it or not, you and Ron are quite similar in a lot of ways. I think that if you spent some time together you’d actually be quite good friends.”

Draco responded, “Oh, I’m sure Weasley is wonderful,” in a tone that implied that he didn’t think Weasley was wonderful at all. “Maybe if he and I became good buddies then I’d finally get to hang out with you once in a while again.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just saying that you’re always with your guards. Last term sometimes you were alone and we’d – well, sometimes we’d be alone together.” Hermione had a way of making Draco say things that didn’t make a lot of sense.

“Guards? Look who is talking! Before Christmas you used to wander the castle by yourself most of the time like some modern day Hamlet. I’d see you more than I saw the girls in my own dorm. But now, if I ever see you, you’re always with your entourage of Goyle, Crabbe, Parkinson and usually a few others, and believe me they’re no more welcoming than Ron or Harry are to you. Guards? I’ll have you know that I’ve been going to the library doing… doing research, most nights, usually alone, and I haven’t seen you in there for months.”

“Er,” was all Draco could manage to say again. Talking to girls was sometimes strangely confusing. He took a breath and tried again. “All right, maybe you’re right. My friends aren’t always nice to you, but it goes both ways. The people you always sit with don’t exactly like to have me around. I mean, what do you think Weasley would do if I found a seat next to you at tomorrow’s Quidditch match?”

“That depends. Who are you rooting for?”

“Hufflepuff, of course.”

“Well see, maybe that’s the problem. Maybe if you showed up all in Gryffindor red and cheered wildly for Harry then you and Ron would be best mates by the end of the day.”

“Hmmm. As tempting as that sounds,” Draco said with a grin, “I don’t see that happening. I’ve got to root for Hufflepuff. Everybody likes Hufflepuff. Have you ever met a Hufflepuff that wasn’t nice? They’re so nice, they won’t even say that they’re nice, in case it hurts your feelings.”

“Oh,” Hermione teased him, “And your love of Hufflepuff has nothing to do with the fact that if Gryffindor wins tomorrow we’ll move ahead of Slytherin in the House Points and Slytherin might not win the House Cup for the first time in seven years?”

“Oh, no no,” Draco said. “I honestly just love Hufflepuff that much.”

Pansy Parkinson walked up with her head tilted slightly forward so that her green eyes could only be seen through the veil of her dark-brown hair. “So is it true? Is your middle name Amy?”

“What?” said Hermione.

“I heard your middle name is Amy: Hermione Amy Granger. What a shame that your initials spell out H.A.G.”

“…My middle name isn’t Amy.”

“All the girls are saying it.”

“By ‘all the girls’ do you mean you?”

“Talk to you later, Amy.” Pansy gave a small wave and turned around.

“My middle name is Jane.”

“I suppose you _would_ say that, Amy.”

Hermione fumed and gave Draco a resentful look, as if she blamed him for the exchange.

After a short, uncomfortable silence, Draco said, “Ummmmm.” It didn’t sound much more intelligent than when he’d said “er,” but for some reason it made Hermione laugh.

They kept talking and Hermione laughed several more times before class was over which made Draco feel strangely happy. And to his surprise, as the bell rang he found himself agreeing to come find Hermione and sit by her at the next Quidditch match.

 

*

 

“Yay Slytherin,” Daphne said without hint of excitement.

“Slytherin isn’t playing! It’s Hufflepuff against Gryffindor.”

“So tell me again why we are here when we could be doing something more fun like cleaning the toilets or churning butter?”

Daphne wasn’t the biggest fan of Quidditch. She said that it was kind of fun to play but brutally painful to watch. Either the game ended within minutes before you even knew who was playing or it went on for hours and hours, which was made even less pleasant by the hard planks that were used as seating at the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch.

“We’re here because we don’t want Gryffindor to win,” Draco calmly explained.

“Why is that?”

“Because we don’t like Gryffindor.”

“We don’t?”

“No!”

“Okay. I see. We don’t like Gryffindor but we’re in looooove with Ravenclaw.”

“Look, Ravenclaw isn’t even playing. We’re cheering for Hufflepuff.”

“And being here is somehow going to help them win?”

“Well, probably not.”

“Hmmm, you make a good argument. On the other hand, that butter probably isn’t going to churn itself.”

Draco liked Daphne. She was easy to talk to, especially for a girl, but he was only half-paying attention to their conversation and wasn’t even aware that Daphne was teasing him. He’d decided to call Hermione’s bluff and sit near her today. He was even going to be on his best behaviour, or at least he’d give it a good try.

When he spotted a small pack of Gryffindors – including Hermione, Longbottom, Weasley, and Parvati Patil – settling into some seats not that far away he told Daphne, “Yeah, maybe you should go butter that toilet. Hey, I think I’ll go grab a seat over there. I think the view would be better.”

Without being asked, and without questioning, Greg and Crabbe stood up and trailed along, leaving Daphne and the other Slytherin first-years behind, until all three plopped themselves down in a row directly behind the Gryffindors. Hermione gave Draco a quick flick of a smile then turned her undivided attention to the Quidditch pitch where Professor Snape, today’s referee, was unpacking the crates containing the Quaffle, Bludgers and Snitch.

Weasley was in a particularly bad mood. He had been even more cranky ever since he had watched Hermione and Draco laughing together in Potions class the day before and within moments of the arrival of the Slytherins the bickering began.It started with Crabbe taunting Longbottom about his latest disaster in Potions class.

Weasley responding by drawling, “I didn’t think any Slytherins would bother coming to watch after the last match. Don’t you ever get tired of watching Gryffindor win?” He then pretended he needed extra room, and started pushing back against Draco’s legs.

“Wonder how long Potter’s going to stay on his broom this time?” Draco retorted. “Anyone want a bet?”

As the griping continued, Hermione pretended to give her undivided attention to what was going on in the pitch.

A tense temporary cease-fire occurred as the match got underway. Hufflepuff scored on a penalty, causing a roar of approval from the crowd. Draco was happy to see Weasley wince.

For some reason Professor McGonagall was in charge of choosing the announcer for each Quidditch match and unsurprisingly she had picked Lee Jordan today, a Gryffindor and one of the Weasley children’s best friends. She sat next to him, nodding her agreement as he told the crowd, “Too bad. Despite being the better team, Gryffindor is down twenty to nothing.” The crowd’s chorus of hisses and whistles showed that they didn’t necessarily agree.

The game was only a couple of minutes underway when the taunting began again. Greg had slapped Weasley on the back in celebration of a Hufflepuff goal. Weasley had complained about how he’d need a shower after the match now that a “grubby Slytherin” had touched him. The bickering grew louder, drowned out briefly by the gasp of the crowd as Potter went into a steep dive. The Gryffindor Seeker clipped Professor Snape, almost unseating the flying referee, and continued to accelerate.

Draco quipped, “Oh look, you’re in luck, Weasley. Potter’s obviously spotted some money on the ground,” which he thought was quite clever but was apparently the straw that broke the camel’s back. Weasley whirled around, his face screwed up with anger.

While hundreds of people were straining to see whether Potter was about to capture the Snitch or plow headfirst into the ground, the five boys plunged into a crude boxing match in the middle of the stands. Longbottom hurled himself at the Slytherins, swinging his fists wildly hoping to connect with anything. Ron was more deliberate, scrambling up and trying to wrestle Draco to the ground with his lanky arms.

When it was all over Draco was left with a split lip and a big gash along his leg, but he could take some consolation in Weasley’s bloody nose, and the fact that he’d been too distracted to see Potter win the Quidditch match for Gryffindor.


	17. The Swamp

“I never knew a plant could seem so lonely.” The Scottish Highlands Heart Hugger rubbed itself gently against Pansy’s elbow. Its petal ‘kisses’ could be quite lethal in the evening but during the day it was completely harmless.

Pansy sat with Draco and Greg, all three growing increasingly bored waiting for Crabbe to finish up with Professor Sprout. From where they were sitting they could only hear Crabbe’s side of the conversation.

“No, not St. Basil’s Blackroot, just plain basil… I keep telling you, it’s not for magic. It’s for eating… Well, it goes very nicely if it’s freshly shredded, but it can be dried… No, no, no. Because it _tastes_ good.”

Pansy picked _The CCLL Guide to Fresh Spring Recipes_ off of Crabbe’s desk and idly flipped through it.

“Is Pomegranate Sorbet what he was trying to mix up in the common room the other night?”

Draco shrugged.

“What I want to know is what the ruddy CCLL stands for. Has he told either of you?” Greg glanced from Pansy to Draco but they just shook their heads.

Pansy continued to flip through the book. “I think this was written by Muggles.”

Boredom finally got the best of Draco. “Forget it. Crabbe’ll be at Sprout all afternoon. Let’s just get going.”

Sometimes the hour long gap between Herbology and Flying Class was just irritating. It wasn’t enough time to get back to the common room so the Slytherins were stuck wandering the grounds or hiding out from the weather in whatever cover they could find, but today nobody was complaining. It appeared that spring had finally decided to come to Hogwarts. The fields had turned green almost overnight and the breeze, which had been cutting and chill just a week earlier, barely wrinkled the lake. The air was filled with the buzz of insects, who, like the grass, had suddenly seemed to appear out of nowhere. The temperature was still cool and a few playful clouds kept blocking the sun, but after the long wet winter it was no surprise that the grounds were crawling with students and staff anyway.

Even Professor Snape, who seemed more at home in the dungeons of Hogwarts than in the bright sunshine, was outside. His quiet contemplation of the lake was broken by Sidney Parrish, wrinkling her forehead as she spoke. “But sir, I did hand that potion in, I’m positive of it. Perhaps you lost it.”

Professor Snape’s face turned dark. “Miss Parrish, I am not in the habit of losing student’s assignments! So unless it just magically disappeared from my office I find it infinitely more probable that the potion in question was never submitted in the first place. May I remind you that this is not the first time you have tried this stunt. Oh, I know that second year seems a lifetime ago to you now, but… ”

The sound of Professor Snape’s voice trailed away as Draco, Pansy and Greg slowly wound their way from the greenhouses towards the copse of trees near the Quidditch pitch where Flying Class was meeting today. They dropped on the grass short of the shady tree line, preferring to soak up the sunshine. A small group of Gryffindors had already arrived and were lying in the shadow of a cottonwood not far off.

Greg eyed them up. “I hope we play some contact Quidditch today. I’m going to stuff whatever ball we’re using down Weasley’s throat.”

But when Flying class did come, Greg was disappointed to learn that not only would there be no Quidditch of any kind today, but the Slytherins and Gryffindors would be working separately.

Madam Hooch, managing to look both stern and impishly mischievous at the same time, announced, “As most of you know, our class will be ending in just a few weeks. To mark your graduation from our little flying school, during our final lesson we shall have an obstacle race between two chosen fliers, one Slytherin and one Gryffindor. The race itself will be timed, with each racer going through a predetermined course separately. The fastest of the two will be declared the winner. I’m afraid there is no trophy to be won, but besides the much sought after bragging rights, you will gain thirty points for your House which will go towards the House Cup Championship.”

A series of whispers ran through the students as everyone reminded each other that Gryffindor was currently ahead of Slytherin by less than that.

“Today you have only one task. By the end of class time you need to have chosen which student will represent your house as your champion, to win points and glory for your house or to fail miserably in shame and disgrace and be treated as an outcast for the rest of their long sad days to come. Now follow me and I’ll show you the route of the race.”

Madam Hooch kicked off and flew a zig-zag pattern through the trees, sweeping around a rocky crag near the castle, ducking through one of the goals of the Quidditch pitch and then soaring out over the lake where she flew into a green banner suspended between two brooms hovering in mid-air. When she returned, the students could see that the banner, which was now flapping around Madam Hooch’s mid-section, was flashing white letters announcing, ‘You Won! You May Now Mock Your Opponent.’

Madam Hooch landed gently and with a flick of her wand sent the banner flying back to the suspended brooms. “The finish line has a counter-spell on it to resist Summoning charms so don’t bother with that old trick.” She gave the Slytherins a pointed look. “There is one other wrinkle. This race will be flown on Tinderblasts.” There was a chorus of groans as Madam Hooch pointed at what appeared to be old kindling rather haphazardly piled together. “These are the oldest brooms the school owns. In fact, some of your parents may have flown on these. I am not doing this to be cruel, but because guiding an old beaten up broom is a real test of skill. I could lash a rat to a Nimbus Two Thousand and it would look like a brilliant flier,” – a few of the Slytherins smirked, remembering that Potter owned a Nimbus – “but guiding a Tinderblast requires care and subtlety.”

Madam Hooch clearly wasn’t kidding when she said they were the oldest brooms the school had. Most of them seemed to only barely be in one piece. The students sorted through the pile but each Tinderblast seemed just as bad as the one before. The shafts were nicked and cracked; it was hard to tell if they’d ever even been painted. Straws stuck out at every angle where they’d been jammed back in, some being held in place by ancient pieces of spellotape.

“I suggest you spend today’s lesson practicing, and remember, work on your speed. It is a timed race so there is no need to practice ramming people in mid-air.”

The Gryffindors met in a circle and immediately chose Potter to race for them. It was a hasty decision, but it turned out to be a good one. Potter, after one false start where he got the end of the broom stuck in a knothole of a tree and needed to brace his feet against the trunk to pull it out, quickly took to the new broom and was soon repeatedly winding his way through the course, each time a little faster then the last. The rest of the Gryffindors stayed firmly on the ground cheering Potter on or yelling out tips as he swooped overhead.

The Slytherins took a different approach, deciding to let everyone spend the lesson trying to get a hang of the Tinderblasts, although not everyone was successful. Some could barely get off the ground and others couldn’t control the direction and soon needed rescuing. Greg tried eight different brooms before declaring that Tinderblasts obviously weren’t strong enough to get someone of his size off the ground, (ignoring the fact that Dianna had managed to get airborne).

As class ended and the Gryffindors headed back towards the castle, there was still no obvious Slytherin candidate for their racing representative. So they decided to hold a mock race, right then, with the winner taking the honour.

Only four students – Daphne, Pansy, Draco and Crabbe – agreed to race. The rest were either so bad that they knew they had no chance of winning, or were worried that they might win and have to face the humiliation of being destroyed by Potter on the actual race day.

It was lucky that the Gryffindors had left, because it turned out to be one of the ugliest competitions in the history of broom racing.All four immediately had trouble with the trees, bashing through branches coated with new spring buds and startling some surprised swallows as they did so.

As they emerged from the grove Daphne was in the lead, but she faltered when she flew into the wind. Even though it was only a light breeze it kept pushing her sideways. She would pull hard only to flip over to other side, never managing to get the shaft of the broom to face straight into the wind. Crabbe sped by her and had a big lead heading for the Quidditch pitch, but when he flew through the goalpost his back foot got caught up. Dangling from one leg, he lost his grip on his Tinderblast, which for some reason circled around and started poking him from behind as if it was either trying to urge him on or knock him off.

Pansy and Draco made their way through the goalpost as slowly and carefully as they could. Daphne, despite her trouble with the wind, was not far behind them, but as she was flying through the hoop her broom gave another huge sideways lurch and she somehow managed to get wedged between the post and Crabbe.

As Madam Hooch flew up to rescue Daphne and Crabbe from the goalpost, Pansy and Draco urged their Tinderblasts towards the finish line.

Pansy had a sizable lead, but as she crossed the lake she began to descend. “No, no. Up, up, go back up.”

But her command to the broom went unheeded and, just thirty feet short of the finish line, she plunged into the water, still icy cold after the long winter. She somersaulted once and disappeared under the surface for a few seconds before coming up sputtering and shouting.

Draco cruised over her head, hoping that the fourth-years who’d told him that the giant squid in the lake ate students were only teasing.

Just trying to make it to the finish line, Draco flew as carefully as possible. When he finally hit the green banner (which now had white letters flashing, “Wow, you are very slow!”) it actually bumped him backwards.

After wrestling the banner out of the grip of the brooms, Draco coasted back to the shore. His initial exuberance at winning was replaced with trepidation as he suddenly realized what he’d won: a chance to race against Potter. Judging by how quickly Potter had wound his way through the course, this was going to be very embarrassing.

Pansy, with a steady stream of water draining off her soaking robes, was deposited carefully on the shore by Madam Hooch. She had an even bigger grin than usual and a sparkle in her huge eyes showed that she thought her crash was pretty cool.

“Madam Hooch? I was wondering if I could stay around a little longer and, er… practice… a bit.”

Madam Hooch roughly dried her broom with her robe. “I was going to suggest it actually, Mr Malfoy. When you’re done, put your broom back in the shed and lock it up. The shed, that is – not the broom.”

Pansy and Crabbe watched for a time, but eventually got bored and wandered back to the castle for dinner, leaving Draco on his own. He soon discovered that with the right urging, the Tinderblast could fly quite fast, at least in a straight line. Turning, especially at high speeds, was another story. The old broom required so much more concentration and guidance than Draco was used to. For every turn that he pulled off brilliantly, another ended in complete disaster.

By sunset, Draco was feeling a little better. Having watched Potter go through the course he knew that he was still the slower of the two, but at least he might be able to keep it close enough to salvage some pride. He was feeling sore and stiff from his hours of practice, but Draco wasn’t ready to quit flying just yet. There was a delicious feeling of freedom in being on his own on a broom, cloaked by a rapidly spreading dusk. Urging his Tinderblast forward, he sped away from the castle.

After hours of practicing turns it was nice to pick up some speed. Flying high, the air whipping through his hair, Draco swooped over the lake, mischievously flew over a bit of the Forbidden Forest, then turned north. After only a few hills and hollows Draco was soon flying over terrain that he was unfamiliar with. A dark patch ahead caught his eye and he dipped towards it to investigate. Flying low and studying the ground in the dim light, he discovered that it was a stretch of shallow marshes and stunted, twisted trees.

The Swamp, like the Forbidden Forest, was off limits to students, but due to its distance from the castle and its generally unappealing nature, staff usually neglected to warn students away from it.

Draco set down with soft squish. Brushing some small bugs away from his face, he remembered talking about this place with Professor Snape.

“Grundlewood,” Draco said to his broom, which unsurprisingly remained quite silent. The Swamp was where Professor Snape had said you could find Grundlewood, way back in the very first Potions class. A bit of Grundlewood would certainly give some extra kick to the Shrinking potion he had to make on Friday.

Draco grinned. Why not? Professor Snape would probably be thrilled with the extra effort he made. He could almost hear the Potions Master announcing proudly to the class that a certain student needed to be recognized today for going above and beyond.

But where was it? There were a lot of bent gnarly trees in this swamp but in this light they all looked the same, and even if they didn’t, Draco realized that he had no idea what Grundlewood looked like.

All the same Draco began to stomp through the marsh, wrinkling his nose at the unseemly smell that the mild wind did nothing to dispel. He soon learned to test between each step, to avoid putting his foot down into some putrid puddle.

He’d only been walking for a few minutes when something caught his eye – a flickering glow that he first thought he’d only imagined. As he watched, it grew stronger, until it was as bright as a lantern, giving off a pale blue light. However, the way it seemed to dance around and grow dimmer and then brighter was very un-lantern-like. Draco stood stock still on clump of soggy moss while the light slowly moved towards him. As it drew close its colour deepened to a darker blue and it circled him once, almost as if it was inspecting him.

“Hello. Who are you?”

The light took Draco by surprise by thrumming back at him. It wasn’t words – it was more like the purr of a cat – but it was clearly an answer to the question.

Draco reached out slowly so as not to startle the light, though it briefly darted back skittishly anyway. He held his hand steady which seemed to give the light the time it needed to screw up its courage and drift back to him.

Finally it hovered only inches away, giving Draco the opportunity to slowly – very slowly – move his hand up to the light.

It was a strange sensation. The light felt thick, like water, and it felt warm, but not warm to the skin. Instead it gave him a pleasant warm feeling inside his arm.

As he gently pulled his arm free an idea struck Draco. “I’m looking for Grundlewood. You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find some, would you?”

The light thrummed once more. Turning briefly white, then cyan, it drifted a few feet away. As Draco tentatively took a step towards it, the light moved again and with each step the light steadily led him through the swamp.

At first Draco was hesitant, testing ahead of each step, but the light, navigating a twisting path, always seemed to find solid ground for Draco’s feet, and as he grew more confidant in the light’s guidance he walked faster. As he moved deeper into the swamp, more lights appeared, most white or light blue. A few were a deep red, but these kept their distance.

After about ten minutes of trudging, the light (which Draco had named ‘Blue’ in his head) suddenly swept straight up, grew very bright for a moment, and gave off a stream of sparks that drifted down, illuminating a dark crooked tree with only a few sparse patches of needles.

Draco grinned triumphantly. “Is that it? Is that the Grundlewood?”

Blue thrummed once more and drifted slowly down.

Draco strode towards the tree, already hearing Professor Snape’s accolades in his mind. After two long steps he suddenly plunged deep into some mire which had the consistency of watery pea soup. The Tinderblast slipped out of his grasp. Blue hovered directly over the spot, its colour quickly fading, and began to give off a moan, steadily rising in pitch.

Draco thrashed wildly, but he couldn’t get hold of anything solid, and he felt himself sinking at an alarmingly fast rate. He tried lurching towards his fallen broom which was lying temptingly close, but he only managed to grab a couple of blades of straw that came loose in his hand before he sank still deeper. He tried relaxing, thinking that perhaps he was only sinking because of his thrashing, but that did little good. Possibly it slowed his descent but it didn’t stop it.

“Help!” he screamed to the open sky and for the first time he noticed that the air above him was filled with lights. All those that had been lurking at the edge of his vision while he was marching through the swamp had gathered close by. Almost all were shining with a brilliant – oddly malevolent – silver glow, though some were a fierce red. And they were shrieking, with a sound like the wind in a blizzard.

With horror, Draco realized that they were feeding. They were feeding on his panic and his fear as he sank deeper in the marsh. He tried crying for help again but mud bubbled into his mouth. Sucking in madly through his nose, it took him several moments to realize that his boot was touching something, something hard. He tried twisting and grabbing at it but realized he could only reach it by plunging his head underneath the slime. Tilting his head back he took two more frantic pulls with his nostrils and then, since it was inevitable anyway, he dived with all his might towards the object his boot had struck, hoping it wasn’t just some piece of junk long discarded in the swamp.

His fingers curled around a slippery piece of wood. When he pulled he was relieved when, instead of coming towards him like some bit of driftwood caught in the muck, it held solid and he pulled himself towards it. Reaching up he found more wood and still more. Heart pounding, he pulled himself along, barely aware that he was going up. He was almost unconscious. While imaginary fireworks burst in his brain and cold muck slid over his skin, he finally pulled his head free. Taking an enormous gulp of air and coughing out mud, he held his position while his head slowly cleared.

With slime running down his face, Draco caught his breath, and his panic subsided. The air above churned with will-o-wisps (though Draco had no idea that’s what they were called) hissing disappointedly. As his heart slowed back to a normal pace, the will-o-wisps dimmed and drifted away one by one.

Draco gave a harsh laugh as he realized that what he was holding on to was the root of a tree. “I don’t know if you’re a Grundlewood, but thanks either way.” Then, ripping a sliver off of the root, he added, “Even if you’re some other tree, I’ll take this for a souvenir.”

He made his way back around the sinkhole slowly, crawling on all fours. When he finally came across his Tinderblast, lying wetly in the muck, he clambered aboard and kicked off. Moments later he spied the steady glow of the castle lights and surprised himself by giggling with relief.

Draco, his robes thoroughly soaked with swamp water and muck, was shivering by the time he got back to the broom shed, which someone had locked up in his absence. Draco knew he should probably find Madam Hooch and return the broom to her, but he had a feeling that she wouldn’t exactly approve of his late night flight on a school broom. In fact, he felt so miserable he didn’t feel like doing anything but showering off back in the dormitory.

Stumping through the castle carrying a broom and leaving a muddy trail behind him, Draco was sure that sooner or later he was bound to get stopped and forced to explain his appearance. But as he made his way down through the castle he only passed a few students who, after sizing him up, decided that this might not be the best time to strike up a conversation.

Draco was just reaching the lowest corridors where the Slytherin common room was, hoping that his luck would hold up, when he came across a small crowd of students giggling in the corridor. There were two older boys that Draco knew played for the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. He didn’t recognize any of the half-a-dozen girls but he thought they were mostly Hufflepuffs.

The giggling stopped. “What’s happened to you?” asked the larger of the two boys.

Draco didn’t feel like explaining but he didn’t feel like just trying to push through this crowd either. He was just opening his mouth to tell some lie about slipping on the shore of the lake when he noticed that everyone’s eyes had just turned as round as saucers. Several of the girls had gone white. One of them suddenly turned and ran away, her steps echoing down the hall.

“B… B… Behind you,” the largest boy stammered, sounding a bit like Professor Quirrell.

Draco spun around. Silently coasting up behind him, hand on the hilt of his sword, was the Bloody Baron. As he approached the group nestled closer together as if they would find protection that way. One of them was making little squeaking sounds.

Taking advantage of the situation by walking at the same pace that the Baron was drifting, Draco made his way past the group of cringing students.

“Does everybody act like that around you? It must hurt your feelings,” Draco said casually to the ghost.

“What? Pull away all terrified like that? I thought that was because of you. I can’t smell and even I can tell that you stink.”

Draco laughed and gave his swamp-soaked robe a sniff. “Well, I’m not a ghost and I can tell that you’re fat.”

Draco stopped and stared at the wall. He stood that way for about ten seconds.

“Forgotten the password, haven’t you?” the Bloody Baron finally observed.

“Yes,” Draco admitted. “Do you know it?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I think I’m too fat to remember.”

“Too fat to remember? That doesn’t even make sense. But, all right, all right, I see what you’re getting at. I’m sorry. I’m not sure how a floating ghost can be sensitive about his weight, but I’m sorry I called you fat. Now will you tell me the password?”

“First tell me how stupid living people are.”

“Okay. We living people are very stupid. We are smelly and dumb. Ghosts are so brilliant in comparison.”

“Now sing it.”

“What?”

“No, I’m just teasing. It’s Black Hearth.” The wall slid open.

“Thanks. I’m glad to see that you ghosts serve some purpose here besides, you know, being all ghostly,” Draco teased.

“Oh, we serve a purpose all right, a much bigger purpose than making sure wet rats get back to their dry robes.”

“Really? What is it?”

“Let me put it this way. We’re here to notice all the things that you don’t and to step in from time to time so you don’t mess up the things you do notice.”

With that cryptic statement, the Baron started to sink through the stone floor. Just before he disappeared he turned and added, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Make the right choices. Take it from somebody who knows – you don’t want to go through eternity with regrets.”

As the Bloody Baron’s head was swallowed by the stone floor the words, “Where’ve you been, mate?” poured out from the common room.

Crabbe was gesturing wildly for Draco to get inside.

“Check this out,” he said, pointing proudly at the door to the boy’s cave.

There on the door was Pansy’s red button.

“We got one of the upper-year boys to fix it on with a Permanence charm. That button’s not coming off of there.”

Draco gave a small smile of congratulations before dropping the Tinderblast in the Cave and finally climbing into the shower.


	18. A Dragon at Hogwarts

Sunshine fell between the branches, lighting up a tiny swarm of insects that seemed happy to do nothing but float on the light breeze. Draco, his back against a mossy snag, watched them for a time. It reminded him of spending mornings in the comfort of his bed back home watching dust motes dancing in the sunlight.

Draco lifted the unlabeled phial in his hand and turned his attention to the Shrinking potion he’d made.

After all the effort Draco had gone through to try to get some Grundlewood, he’d been too scared to use it in class. What if it wasn’t actually Grundlewood and he’d just wrecked the potion? What if he got into trouble for flying to the Swamp?

Instead, after handing a sample of his Shrinking potion in to Professor Snape, he’d taken what was left in the cauldron for himself and mixed the sliver of the root he’d brought back from the Swamp into that. Now he wasn’t sure what he should do with it. New questions bounced around in his head. What if it made him dangerously small, or what if the root he’d actually found was poisonous?

Seriously considering just dumping the bluish liquid out on the fresh spring grass, Draco was interrupted by the chatter of Weasley, Potter and Hermione. Their heads were turned in together like some sort of three headed beast with six legs, engaged deep in conversation. Even though they passed so close that they almost trod on his foot, they appeared not to have noticed him there.

Draco couldn’t hear anything except for scraps of their conversation that drifted back to him. He heard Ron mumbling something about a dragon hatching and he clearly heard Hermione mention Hagrid. Potter snapped at his friends to “shut up” and turned back with a piercing glance at Draco. However, Weasley and Hermione ignored this request and continued their low banter as they stumped off in the direction of the Herbology greenhouses.

Draco rolled his eyes to the sky.

“Like, I’m really going to fall for that and follow you down there,” he said, though only the hovering bugs heard.

The subject would have quickly slipped out of his mind if not for a chance glance through a second floor window during morning break. At first, he just walked on, until he sub-consciously realized what he’d seen. Stopping and retracing his steps, he looked back out across the grounds. Sure enough, there were three figures which – although unrecognizable from this distance – certainly resembled Weasley, Potter and Hermione, making their way from the greenhouses towards the gamekeeper’s hut that Hagrid lived in.

For a second time Draco rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, you can’t be serious.”

Over the next few minutes he began to make his way down to Hagrid’s home, twice telling himself, “Why not, I’ve got nothing better to do right now,” both times turning around determined not to let Weasley make a fool of him.

The third time it stuck. His fear of being tricked was overpowered by a level of curiosity that only an eleven year old knows and Draco found himself striding across the open fields wishing there was more cover so that he at least had something to hide behind.

The building was surprisingly small considering that the occupant was clearly the largest person at Hogwarts. Draco still wasn’t sure exactly what Hagrid did here at the school, other than feed animals from time to time and occasionally carry things around for the teachers, but he saw him often enough eating at the staff table, often with both of his dustbin-sized hands grabbing food at the same time.

Draco stopped in front of the door. After a quick glimpse around to ensure that he wasn’t being observed, he pressed his ear to the weathered wood. There were obviously some people inside. There was some banging, what sounded like a bark, and some voices – a deep booming one that must be Hagrid and another that sounded like Weasley – but he couldn’t make out what was being said.

Draco began to circle the house, trying to find a chink in its armour. Stomping through a recently turned garden, he spotted a window, beyond which were a pair of incompletely drawn curtains. Heart pounding, Draco slunk over. Then, coming up from below like a stealthy periscope, he peeked – or at least tried to peek – through the glass. Unfortunately, he could barely see anything beyond the sun’s glare bouncing off the greasy windowpane, which appeared not to have been washed since the day it was placed inside its frame.

Shading his eyes and pushing his face so close that his lashes were brushing the glass, he finally made out some shapes inside. As his eyes adjusted to the light, Draco was pretty sure he could make out Potter and a figure that looked like a dog, or maybe it was just a chair. Before he could guess which, something moved in the room and came into focus – Hagrid’s face which was staring right at him.

Staggering back, Draco whirled and stumbled towards the castle. Ears glowing, he cursed himself for coming down here. He heard the door open behind him and he broke into a run, picturing the four of them doubled over in laughter at his expense and saying things like, “Did we tell you Hagrid? We fed that Slytherin Malfoy a line about there being a dragon down here. Stupid git believed it, didn’t he? Bet the only reason he even got accepted into Hogwarts is that Daddy made a big donation for a new Astronomy tower or something.”

 

*

 

The next day Draco expected that Weasley and Potter would have told half the school about what happened, but to his surprise – and relief – no one seemed to know. Hoping (but not really being able to believe) that Hagrid had somehow not recognized him, Draco did his best to forget about the ‘dragon’ incident altogether.

As it turned out, forgetting was surprisingly easy to do, because as the days passed, other worries filled his mind. Draco still thought about getting into Professor Snape’s office, but that had taken a back seat to an even bigger concern – his upcoming race against Potter – especially because he knew that he wasn’t anywhere near as fast as Potter.

“It’s just common sense. The purer the blood the stronger the wizard. The magic is in you or it isn’t"

“What?”

“Are you even listening?” Crabbe waved his hands in front of Draco’s eyes.

“Sorry. I was thinking about the race.”

“Again? You’re getting a bit obsessive, you are.”

“Too bad you can’t use magic to help,” Greg grumbled while stuffing a danish into his mouth.

“I know. I really wish Madam Hooch hadn’t thought of protecting the finish line from a Summoning charm. It’d pretty handy if I could just move the finish the line a little bit closer. It would certainly cut down on my overall time.

“Well, there’s nothing else for it,” announced Crabbe as he carefully added three capers to a cracker already topped with smoked salmon and thinly sliced scallion. “The only trick that might work is the old fashioned one. You know, practice, mate. You just need more time on the broom.”

Draco watched Crabbe close his eyes and smell the cracker. “When am I supposed to do that? We only get Flying Class once a week and even if we get a chance to practice for the race all that happens is that Potter gets faster and I stay the same.”

“Well what about that muddy broom that’s been sitting in the Cave? Take it out for a spin or two.”

Draco had never told any teachers about his trip to the Swamp but he’d had to tell the story to the other boys of the dorm after he’d been seen dripping in slime and dragging himself back into the common room. His story, especially by the fourth telling where he’d had to battle his way past dozens of magical swamp creatures using only his wand, had duly impressed them.

“Yah, why don’t you bring it out to Quidditch practice tonight?” Greg asked, grimacing as he tried one of Crabbe’s capers.

Draco was reluctant, but he couldn’t think of a good argument against the idea, so he soon found himself in the Slytherin dormitory trying to figure out how to smuggle the Tinderblast out to the Quidditch Pitch.

Crabbe wrapped the broom up in a bed sheet, managing to make it look exactly like a broom in a bed sheet. “Maybe you should ask Potter to carry it out for you. He’s allowed to.”

“But he’s a first-year,” Greg looked confused.

“Crikey, how many times do we have to go through this?”

“Wait a second,” said Draco, extricating the broom from the sheets. “What if I just tell the truth? Madam Hooch told me I could practice late, but the shed was locked when I finished, so I have to return it.”

Crabbe looked duly impressed. “Bold plan, mate. That just might work.

So Draco, with Crabbe and Greg trailing a few feet behind, wound his way up out of the castle to the Quidditch Pitch. All their fears and planned excuses turned out to be unnecessary, as the only teacher they passed was Professor Quirrell who was distractedly adjusting his purple turban and didn’t even seem to notice the boys. Soon they were joining a score of other students pacing around on the edge of the field.

Since the weather had turned nice, a surprisingly large number of students had remembered how much they liked joining in on the Quidditch practices, which meant a lot of sitting around on the sidelines hoping for a chance to get in.

They waited for about a half of an hour, watching other people whip around on their brooms, before Greg gave up. After another half-hour, Crabbe and Draco were talking about doing the same when the team captain, Marcus Flint, swung by.

“Draco, Vincent, you guys want to play for a while? We’ve just flattened this lot seven times in a row. We’re not getting much practice here.”

It wasn’t until he kicked off that Draco remembered exactly what he was doing here. He hadn’t just come to Quidditch practice for fun, he’d come to get some time on the Tinderblast, and he almost immediately regretted it.

He’d always had the most trouble with cornering and in Quidditch there was a lot of that – darting in and out of play, dodging Bludgers, not to mention chasing the elusive Snitch. At first people just assumed his timing was off and shouted words of encouragement like, “Look out there Draco, coming through,” but they were soon shouting much less friendly words.

After careening off the goalpost, unseating one his own Chasers, and then finally getting his broomstick caught in the robes of the freckled boy who was acting as referee, Marcus Flint called “subs,” and the two giggling girls who’d lost seven games in a row came back in for Crabbe and Draco.

 

*

 

That night Draco sat on his bed idly polishing the handle of the Tinderblast in the vain hope that smoothing it would somehow make the broom easier to handle. He knew his efforts wouldn’t really make much difference, which is why he kept turning the problem of the race over and over in his mind. Unfortunately, tonight it wasn’t easy to concentrate due to the laughter of the other boys drifting in as Crabbe told and retold the story of their horrible Quidditch game.

One of Professor Sinistra’s lessons (the one about relative motion that she didn’t think anyone had been paying attention to) had given Draco one idea about how to win, but it would require finding a spell that Draco wasn’t even sure existed. Besides that, most people would probably consider it cheating. Still, it seemed to be the only hope he had.

 

*

 

In the evenings Draco started frequenting the library, hunting through whatever books he could find about brooms. It was tedious work, but on the bright side, Hermione was there a lot of the time so Draco had someone to sit with. They talked about many things in brief but quite enjoyable conversations, like they had the previous autumn when it appeared that they were becoming fast friends.

Their conversations had to be brief because when she caught them talking, Madam Pince, the sunken-cheeked librarian with skin like parchment, would threaten to toss them out and never let them return, sometimes punctuating her threats by prods with her wand. Other times Hermione would explain that she just had to stop talking because of all the revision for exams she had to get through.

With the amount that Hermione was studying, she obviously wasn’t just making excuses. Watching her inevitably filled Draco with a sense of guilt, not because he was disturbing Hermione, and not even because he thought he should be busily studying too, but because she reminded him of how close it was getting to the end of the term, which in turn reminded him of how much time had passed since he’d promised himself he would find out what Professor Snape knew about the return of the Dark Lord. Whenever this popped into his mind he vowed to turn his full attention to it as soon as the race with Potter was over.

One evening, while Draco was bored with flipping through _Broom Tricks for Beginners_ and it was too dark outside to see anything through the mullioned windows, he announced, “I really don’t like your friends.”

Hermione, without even looking up, retorted, “I don’t like yours either but you don’t hear me constantly complaining about them.”

Draco opened his mouth but nothing came out. Wondering why that kept happening around Hermione, Draco finally sputtered, “I… I…”

“Yes?” Hermione asked. She was still staring down at her book, but Draco could see a hint of a smile.

He stared at her bushy brown hair. He suddenly felt very strange. His hands were sweaty and he felt like there was a large stone in his stomach.

“I… I’ve never met anyone quite like you.” Draco didn’t know what he wanted to say, but he was pretty sure that hadn’t been it.

“Is that so?” she asked, her eyes glancing up to meet his, her head still tilted down towards her notes.

“Er, yes,” he managed to stammer. “But what I meant to say is that I… I like…”

“You like?” she prodded.

“What I mean is…” – Draco fought off a strange urge to flee the library – “…I sometimes have fun with you.”

Hermione’s grin broadened, “I have fun with you too, Draco.”

They spent the rest of the evening in a thoroughly satisfying silence. A silence that was even more pleasant when, just before the library was due to close for the evening, Draco came across the exact spell he was hoping to find.

 

*

 

On the Thursday before their last Flying Class and his showdown with Potter, Draco was stuck with an Astronomy report on the topic of how the gravity of Jupiter and Saturn affected each other. Professor Sinistra had recommended that he consult a book called _When Planets Attract: Gravity or Love_? by Ivan Palivovitch, and Draco had welcomed the excuse to go back to the library, having found that he’d generally enjoyed his evenings there.

Unfortunately, although the library was surprisingly crowded, there was no sign of Hermione. What was worse, Draco couldn’t find the book on the shelf anywhere which meant that he had to seek the help of Madam Pince, a task no student relished.

Draco forced himself to approach her desk and Madam Pince snapped, “What do you want?” before he could speak.

“Is hating students a job requirement at every school, or just at Hogwarts?”

“What are you mumbling about?”

“Er, Professor Sinistra recommended that I get a book called _When Planets Attract_.”

“Ronald Weasley has it. And when you see him, tell him that he is not fooling me by hiding out in the hospital wing. He’d better return all his books on time or else.”

Madam Pince turned her attention back to her desk to show that the conversation was over.

Ron Weasley in the hospital wing? Draco had overheard something about Weasley having been bitten by a dog.

Draco paused in the corridor outside the library and then, with a ‘why not’ shrug, turned and headed for the hospital wing instead of the Slytherin common room.

A couple of weeks ago, after the fight at the Quidditch match, it would have been inconceivable for Draco to voluntarily visit Weasley. But he really appreciated that Potter and Weasley hadn’t rubbed his nose in the fact that he’d fallen for the dragon gag. In fact, it didn’t even seem like they’d told anybody about it. It was like they’d called a truce in the war just when they could have pressed for victory.

After promising Madam Pomfrey, the overly anxious matron of Hogwart’s hospital wing, that he’d be brief, Draco was allowed to make his way over to where Weasley was lying, eyes closed, rocking slowly on his bed, like he was stuck in some bad dream. Draco stood silently beside the bed, studying Weasley’s arm which was a sickly greenish hue and looked like somebody had decided that it was a balloon and had inflated it to almost triple its normal size.

Weasley gave a jerk and his eyes shot open. After blinking a couple of times, a look of confusion filtered over his face. “Malfoy?”

“Sure, you don’t think I’d miss a chance to see you like this, do you? Besides your family asked me to come by. Apparently you had the family’s life savings of two Knuts in your pocket and they were worried that it might fall out while you were lying here.”

Weasley, lifting his head slightly, looked like he was trying hard to understand what Draco was saying but his eyes kept crossing and uncrossing. “Malfoy. You don’t even. You just wish your father that then took long but you didn’t, did you? But noooo, your family dark made of secrets but… you know!”

“Oh, ouch. Good comeback, Weasley. Watch out! You don’t want to make me angry or I might just tell Madam Pomfrey what really bit you.” Draco gave Weasley a big wink.

“Nobody thinks under your rug. Isn’t it?”

“It’s okay, Weasley, don’t get all worked up. I just came by to get an Astronomy book. Madam Pince said she was going to bite your other arm if you didn’t return it.”

Draco scooped _When Planets Attract_ from the tall table next to Weasley’s bed and headed for the door. Glancing back, he could see Weasley arguing with the air, waving his finger as if he was making an important point.

Draco flipped through the depressingly thick book when a piece up paper slid out. He picked it up and read.

> _Dear Ron:_
> 
> _How are you? Thanks for the letter – I’d be glad to take the Norwegian Ridgeback, but it won’t be easy getting him here. I think the best thing will be to send him over with some friends of mine who are coming to visit me next week. Trouble is, they mustn’t be seen carrying an illegal dragon._
> 
> _Could you get the Ridgeback up the tallest tower at midnight on Saturday? They can meet you there and take him away while it’s still dark._
> 
> _Send me an answer as soon as possible._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Charlie_

Draco burst out laughing, causing Madam Pomfrey to whisper a menacing, “Shhhhh! There are sick people in here.”

“Sorry,” Draco said to Madam Pomfrey, and then added quietly to himself, “Brilliant, Weasley. You’ve got a better sense of humour than I thought you did.”

Back in his bed, Weasley was just singing quietly to himself, “I like chocolate, bats like chocolate, fish like chocolate, but Snape wants the stone.”

 


	19. A Disappointing Victory

It was Saturday night and, as usual, the Slytherin common room resembled a recently shaken wasp’s nest. Though everyone had homework, few people seemed inclined to do it.

Crabbe and Greg were five minutes into a surprisingly evenly matched arm-wrestling competition; the winner was going to have the honour of getting beaten badly by Dianna, who everyone already knew was the first-year Slytherin arm-wrestling champion. Millicent and Daphne were flicking droplets of water into the low fire and watching them hiss into vapour as they hit the coals. Theodore had his eyes closed and was either asleep or pretending to be. Blaise was telling a long-winded story to Pansy and Tracey about getting lost in a hotel but they seemed more interested in seeing who could make bigger spit bubbles.

Draco was slumped down in a chair, his shoeless feet perched on a small tower of pillows, chuckling to himself. He re-read Weasley’s note for about the tenth time. Tricking Draco into wondering whether or not it could possibly be true that Hagrid was keeping a dragon inside his hut was one thing, but this was pushing it a bit far.

“I’m supposed to believe that not only did Hagrid really have a dragon, but that he’s been raising it for the last month and now he’s going to dispose of the monster simply by carrying it through Hogwarts Castle and passing it off to some strange wizards who just happened to be able to get around all of Hogwarts’ protection charms and land on the castle’s roof. All the while hoping that nobody notices,” he thought to himself.

But it wasn’t the silliness or the improbability of these things that was making him chuckle. Draco was chuckling because he’d just realized something. He’d just realized that this was his ticket for sneaking out late on a Saturday night.

After the disaster of his first attempt to break into Professor Snape’s office, Draco had pushed the idea to the back of his mind, but the more he thought about Ron’s note the more things seemed to click into place.

Professor Snape’s office was bound to be empty late on a Saturday night. Getting in using his magical hole wouldn’t be a problem; Draco knew exactly where to go now. He’d just have to be a little more careful about landing this time, and even that should be easier now that he knew exactly how far the drop was. The only trick was to not get caught prowling the hallways late at night, and that is where Weasley’s note came in.

Draco didn’t believe for a second that Hagrid – or Potter, or whoever – would actually be trying to haul a thrashing dragon through the castle tonight, but that didn’t matter. As long as he acted like he believed the note, it was basically the same as a free pass. If Mr Filch caught him lurking in the hallways, he could simply run up as if he’d been looking for Mr Filch all along and give him the note, as if he’d just been trying to report on some crime going on.

The only trick was sneaking out without any of the other Slytherins noticing, especially Greg or Crabbe. They would undoubtedly want to tag along.

Draco feigned sleepiness and told everyone he was heading down to his den.

“Stay out of my room,” Greg called.

“See, mate, there you go again. You keep saying you’ve got nothing to hide but you never let any of us in your room. How much salad do you have in there?”

“I’m not! I mean… there isn’t salad…”

Draco ignored Crabbe and Greg’s bickering and headed down to the Cave, pausing briefly to inspect the doorway. The door itself had several burn marks, and the wood was gouged badly, but the red button was still there. The Permanence charm was really doing the trick. It didn’t look like the girls were ever going to get the button off the door.

Draco continued down the stairs and flopped onto his bed with an audible thump. He turned off his light and waited for everyone else to go to bed, passing the time by wondering what would happen if someone cast a Permanence charm on him. Would he ever be able to get out of his bed?

Hours later he was awoken by a crash and the voice of Theodore saying “Oops, sorry” from the bathroom. It took a few seconds before Draco remembered exactly where he was and why he was lying on top of his covers fully dressed.

“I must have fallen asleep,” he mumbled to himself. He had no idea what time it was and checking his window only told him that it was dark outside. Maybe it would be better to wait until things settled down and everyone was in bed. On the other hand, if midnight passed then Weasley’s note wouldn’t do him a bit of good if he was caught.

Swinging his legs silently down onto the cold floor, Draco crept stealthily out of his den and almost crashed headfirst into Blaise who was on his way to brush his teeth.

Blaise just nodded a hello at Draco, who muttered, “I can’t sleep. I think I’ll go read by the fire a bit.” The fact that Draco wasn’t carrying a book didn’t seem to interest Blaise a great deal.

The common room still wasn’t silent but it was much quieter than before. A few people were sitting here and there reading. The only large group left, made up mostly of sixth and seventh-years, were sitting in a small circle sipping at contraband butterbeers and amusing themselves by seeing if any of the couples could kiss each other fast enough before one of the others could cast a Liplocker curse on them. Nobody seemed overly interested in Draco as he made his way over to the noticeboard and pretended to be studying a poster about the ideal ways to store your wand when not in use. When he finally slipped quietly out of the doorway, no one noticed.

The hallways were strangely dark. The usual smokeless torches were guttering away, tossing dancing shadows along the walls, but it seemed like somebody had turned them down for the night because they didn’t have their normal radiance. The corridors were also muted. No distant conversations, scraping chairs, or echoing footsteps broke the stillness. The Fat Friar (the ghost that had told the new students “Hope to see you in Hufflepuff” back on their first night at Hogwarts) skimmed past on some errand in total silence.

The only one who seemed to have no interest in maintaining the evening peace was Peeves the Poltergeist. It sounded like he was cackling to himself while having great fun playing a game of tennis in the Entrance Hall.

Avoiding Peeves by keeping to the lower levels, Draco carefully made his way to the alcove directly above Professor Snape’s office. He slipped quietly into the darkened recess, still empty except for the dust and the dull suit of armour standing in one corner.

Draco dug out the magical hole and began to unwrap it.

“LOOK OUT! CARTHAGINIANS!” The sudden shout from the suit of armour startled Draco into dropping the magical hole.

Heart hammering, he snatched the bundle up again.

“Don’t do that!” Draco hissed. “I don’t want anyone to know we’re here.”

The suit of armour said nothing. It just stood silently, cobwebbed arms hanging loosely, seemingly oblivious to the world around.

Draco gave a couple of deep breaths, calming himself, when a voice from down the corridor called, “Hello, is somebody there?”

With a sinking feeling and a quick dirty look at the armour, Draco shrank back into the shadows, but it did no good. A pumpkin-shaped face poked around the corner and squinted into the gloom.

“Malfoy? Is that you?”

“Longbottom? What are you doing down here? Are you lost?”

“No,” Neville answered in a tone that suggested he really meant “Yes.”

“Well, if you’re not lost then you’d better run back to your dorms, hadn’t you? You know you’re not supposed to be prowling around down here at this time of night.”

For a half second it looked like Neville might just ‘run back’ when he paused and then said defiantly, “What about you then? You’re not supposed to be out of bed either. And what do you mean by ‘down here’ anyway? Isn’t this the fifth floor?”

“It just so happens, Longbottom, that, unlike you, I’ve got a perfectly good reason to be here. I’m helping the teachers keep an eye on some rule-breaking Gryffindors. It seems that your supposed ‘chums,’ Weasley and Potter, have been taking care of a dragon hatchling and tonight they’re planning on somehow smuggling him through the building and passing him off to one of Weasley's brothers. Well, at least Potter will be. Weasley’s conveniently stuck in the hospital wing. Keeps him out of trouble doesn’t it? On the other hand, I suppose that means Potter will be needing some help, which may explain exactly what you’re doing out at this hour. Are you scouting for him, Longbottom?”

But from the look on Neville’s face it was obvious that he certainly never heard about any dragons at Hogwarts. As Neville stammered, “I’m not… I mean they wouldn’t… I would have… well, they would have told me…” he began to trot away.

Draco yelled at the retreating form, “Hurry back to bed, Longbottom. You shouldn’t have trouble finding it. Every time you find some stairs just go up. How hard can that be?”

Neville rounded a corner and the corridor was once again plunged into silence, but only for the briefest of moments.

Professor McGonagall, looking very much like an angry hawk, came stomping up the corridor from behind Draco puffing mightily as if she had just been running a marathon. “Now what?” she barked. “First there’s Peeves causing even more damage than usual and now students running around in the halls in the middle of the night. Is that you Malfoy?”

Draco knew that answering ‘No’ to that question wouldn’t actually help him at that moment.

 

*

 

“Why did it have to be McGonagall?” Greg muttered five days later, cracking his knuckles as if _he_ wouldn’t have gone down without a fight if he’d been the one caught in the hallways at midnight.

Professor Quirrell was still stuttering through a lecture about knowing when it is better to run than to hide but many of the Slytherins were having trouble paying attention; they were still too interested in retelling the story of Draco’s capture.

Pansy, giving up on simply eavesdropping, whispered to the three boys, “He’s right. If it was any other teacher they would have just sent you back to bed. I mean, you had a good reason for being there, but McGonagall just has it in for us.”

“Exactly.” Crabbe had been a little grouchy at first, wondering why Draco hadn’t told them about the note, but all seemed forgiven now and he was happy to join in commiserating about how Slytherins always seemed to be the ones being persecuted at Hogwarts. “I mean, even if you thought the note was rubbish you still had to check it out. At the very least it’s Weasley’s fault for trying to trick you into going out in the first place.”

“Plus,” Pansy added, her eyes somehow facing Professor Quirrell but her mouth whispering backwards, “they were really there. I mean McGonagall caught the lot of them – Potter, Longbottom, and that noisy Granger girl. Obviously they really were up to something and you were the one who put her on to it.”

“I know what they were up to,” Draco hissed. “They just couldn’t resist watching me get caught.”

“At least three of them got in trouble,” smiled Greg, nodding slightly. “Three to one, I like that.”

“Maybe so,” Crabbe said, loudly enough to turn a few more heads in their direction, “but it’s not fair that they all got the same detention. I mean, they started it.”

“At least we’ll get back at them when Draco beats Potter in the race tomorrow.” Greg’s comment evoked no response except some nervous shifting gazes. He really did seem to favour the Slytherin’s chances in their last Flying class and, while his obvious loyalty gained him some grudging admiration, few other Slytherins seemed to share his optimism.

“So, mate, should I put you down for a few more Sickles then?”

“I’d like to, but you’ve already got all my money,” grumbled Greg.

Crabbe had been taking bets on the race, and despite setting the odds at eight to one in favour of Potter, most people were still wagering on Harry.

Draco had been a little bit irritated when Crabbe had first started taking bets, especially when Gryffindors began to come up during meals or between classes, loudly announcing that they were betting on Potter, but Crabbe had cajoled him, “Hey, no worries, mate. They’ll look the fools later when you win and we take all their money!” A point Draco found trouble arguing with since he had, publicly at least, continued to act like he had a chance of winning, despite not having a lot of confidence either in his flying skills or the special spell he’d discovered.

Even most of the Slytherins, with Greg being an obvious exception, had been betting on Potter, but at least they were usually thoughtful enough to do it when Draco wasn’t around.

The bell went, signalling the end of their Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

“D-D-Don’t for-forget to practice what we’ve been study-studying,” stuttered Professor Quirrell. “I-I want each one of you to spend some time in the n-next week hiding.”

 

*

 

The Great Hall was gloomy, its ceiling shrouded in grey clouds, but the conversations in the room were bright and animated nonetheless. The arrival of spring, even on an overcast day like this, seemed to have pervaded Hogwarts, bringing a fresh energy to the students and staff.

As the Slytherins chattered amongst themselves they didn’t notice that a tall, slim, blue-eyed witch watched them from the entrance to the Great Hall. It was only when Draco was leaving the hall for Herbology class and he had to physically step around the woman, whose hair and face were as pale as his own, that he truly noticed her standing there.

“Mother!”

“I think we have been apart too much over the last year.” Narcissa Malfoy’s eyes darted around the room as she talked. “That is the second time I’ve come to meet you and you’ve practically walked right past me.”

With Narcissa standing in front of him, Draco couldn’t help but switch into the formal style of conversation that was encouraged at home. “I’m sorry, Mother. I meant no disrespect. I just wasn’t expecting…”

“It’s fine.” Narcissa now looked down and gave her son a reassuring smile. “Your concern is admirable but I am only teasing. Now give your mother an embrace.”

Draco, not caring what other students thought, threw his arms around Narcissa.

“I’ve brought you a present.”

“A present?”

“Yes. I’ve brought you an afternoon off, but just for you, my son.” Narcissa Malfoy made a shooing gesture at Crabbe and Greg, both of whom had stopped to watch the reunion, partly interested in what was going on and partly confused since no other parents ever seemed to just ‘drop in’ on their children like this.

“The afternoon off. Is that all right? I don’t want to get into trouble for cutting classes.”

“Again I admire your concern, but not to worry, Draconius. I have spoken with your Headmaster and he has reluctantly agreed that a few hours with your mother is a worthy trade for one missed lesson.”

For the next couple of hours, Narcissa and Draco Malfoy walked side by side through the Hogwarts castle, Draco with an unconscious spring of pride in his step.

Narcissa bubbled with excitement as she prowled around Hogwarts. The tour began with Draco pointing out some of his classrooms and favourite places. The role of guide quickly reversed however, as Narcissa took the lead, walking quickly – and sometimes even breaking into a run for a few steps – through the castle as she reminisced about her days as a student. She was surprised to spot Professor Binns – “Still teaching!” – through an open doorway. She wrinkled her nose with disdain when she discovered that Hogwarts taught a course in Muggle Studies (“That would never have been allowed in my time!”). She even showed Draco a secret stairway, hidden behind a large Grecian urn, that he’d never known about before. Halfway down it Narcissa suddenly looked under the worn wooden handrail and uttered in a surprised tone, “I can’t believe that’s still here!” Draco ducked down to look at the spot and saw words, faint but still legible, carved into the underside of the banister, saying ‘Treynor Sallows and Narcissa Black Forever.’

“Who?” asked Draco.

“None of your concern!” Narcissa answered primly, a pink glow on her cheeks visible even in the dim light of the hidden stairwell.

Moments later she was off again, with her son trying to keep up. After a few more twists and turns Narcissa was heading straight for the off-limits hallway on the third-floor. Draco was about to tell her to stop when they both almost crashed into Professor Snape who seemed to have been lurking in the shadows of the doorway for no apparent reason.

“Severus. This is lucky. Could you excuse us, Draconius? There is some business I need to discuss with Professor Snape. I’ll talk to you later, all right?”

Before Draco could answer, the pair walked away, whispering indistinguishably to each other.

 

*

 

The next afternoon was warm and humid, almost muggy. The sun dappled the grounds of Hogwarts as the students milled around waiting for the race to begin. The Gryffindors and Slytherins were clustered in small groups talking with each other, while a handful of older students with nothing better to do lay on the grass watching the proceedings with only a mild interest.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Pansy explained, a light wind tossing her dark-brown hair into her face. “I mean the race is only worth thirty points. When Madam Hooch announced that, we were practically tied with Gryffindor, but now we’re miles ahead again. It doesn’t matter what happens – we’re going to win the House Cup.”

“Oh come on, don’t talk like that,” griped Crabbe. “It sounds like you’re consoling him for losing. The race still hasn’t happened, you know, and I’ve got a good feeling that my boy is going to come up on top.”

“Your boy? Aren’t you going to make money in your little gambling pool no matter who wins?”

“Well, yes, but that’s just the fee for providing a necessary service. I’m still rooting for my mate.”

Draco didn’t join in the argument. Everyone assumed that he was feeling too nervous to talk, but in fact he felt strangely calm about the upcoming race. Instead, his mind was busy thinking about his mother. Where was she? Draco hadn’t seen her since the abrupt ending of their walk the day before. Was she still somewhere on the grounds of Hogwarts? Or had she left as quietly as she had arrived?

As if in answer to an unbidden summons, Narcissa took that moment to appear, strolling casually over a small rise not far away. She was accompanied by Professors Snape and McGonagall, obviously coming to see how their respective houses fared in the competition.

Draco moved away from the knot of Slytherins. “Mother, I’m… I’m glad to see you.”

A look of amusement crossed Narcissa’s face. “My goodness. You look… hmmm, how is it you look? Surprised? Relieved? You didn’t think I’d just leave without even bidding you farewell, did you?”

Draco shook his head, trying to hide the fact that the idea had crossed his mind more than once.

“Well, of course I haven’t, as you can see. I just thought it better that you not miss any more classes. As well, I had other business to attend to. To be precise, I just spent a good long while discussing Ember with Professor Trelawney.”

“Professor Trelawney?”

“She is likely to be your Divination teacher next year, Mr Malfoy,” interjected Professor Snape. “You probably haven’t seen her around much. She tends to stick close to her classroom. Her rather distinct odour tends to make her unwelcome in the Great Hall during mealtimes.

“I must confess, I was not overly impressed by her ability to answer my questions,” Narcissa added.

Professor Snape issued a derisive snort and said dryly, “I’m not surprised.”

“In any case,” Narcissa Malfoy waved her hand to show that her interview with Professor Trelawney was behind her and to be forgotten, “I certainly didn’t want to leave until I got to watch my only child race to victory.”

“…Race to victory?”

“Yes, that is today isn’t it? You mentioned it in several of your letters.”

Before Draco could reply, the figure of Madam Hooch appeared, striding rapidly towards them. She began yelling, as she often did, while still a good long distance away. “All right students, let’s get to it. Today there will be only one order of business: the final race of the season, the one you’ve all been waiting for – and, if my sources are correct, wagering on.”

Madam Hooch, her own broom tucked up under one arm, clapped her hands. “Okay, Mr Potter, to the start line please. Nod when you are ready and I will give you the signal.” Her head swivelled to face the mass of expectant faces. “And there will be no hexing of the riders by any spectators.”

To the cheers of the Gryffindors, as well as those of many of the students lounging on the grounds, Harry Potter kicked off and made his way through the obstacle course in a quick but controlled manner. Harry’s thinking was that Draco could only win if he made a major mistake, so he didn’t try to fly too fast, and instead concentrated on flying cleanly and efficiently.

Draco had to admit to himself that Harry’s flying was impressive. He guided the temperamental old Tinderblast as well as most students could do on a brand new racing broom. As he ripped the banner off of the two floating brooms that marked the finish line, the banner flashed, “Time: one minute and sixteen seconds. You are probably going to win, Harry Potter.”

Potter flew slowly down (to the hoots and claps of his Gryffindor fan club) holding the banner one-handed and letting it flap in the wind behind him.

“Very nice, very nice, Mr Potter. Now if you’ll please disengage your hand from the finish line. Thank you very much.” Madam Hooch swirled her wand and the banner flew back up to the brooms hovering above the choppy lake, reattached itself, and announced in its bold scrolling letters, “Hurry up! It’s cold out here.”

“Mr Malfoy, you know what to do.” Madam Hooch stretched out her arm, beckoning Draco to the starting spot.

Draco picked up his broom. He’d brought up the same Tinderblast that he still hadn’t returned since his ill-conceived flight to the Swamp. It wasn’t the best looking broom available and no one, including Madam Hooch, seemed to have missed it, but Draco was getting used to its idiosyncrasies.

He was still settling into position when Madam Hooch cried, “Begin,” causing Draco to kick off unevenly and drift sideways for a few seconds. A chorus of jeers rose up from the Gryffindors as the Tinderblast clipped the trunk of a tree, but these were soon drowned out by cheers from the Slytherins and from Draco’s own mother. Professor Snape said nothing but applauded politely.

Draco tried to mimic Potter’s style of not pushing too hard, and instead concentrated on flying smoothly. He rounded the trees, whose thick lush leaves were more of an impediment than when he’d been practicing earlier in the season, and coaxed his Tinderblast faster as he entered clear air heading for the rings of the Quidditch pitch. Despite the whoops from below and feeling like the wind was racing by him faster than ever before, Draco knew that he wasn’t as quick as Potter had been. He risked pushing his broom a little bit harder and instantly regretted it when, instead of racing straight through the Quidditch hoop, his left foot clipped the inside edge. It wasn’t hard enough to unseat him but it sent him sliding sideways. Instead of resisting it, Draco let the sliding motion do its work and managed to spin completely around until he was facing the lake and the hovering finish line above it. Hoping that the crowd below believed that he’d meant to do what he’d just done, he urged his broom on once again.

As he approached the lake, Draco gripped hard on the handle with his left hand and used his other to withdraw his wand. Thrusting it out, he bellowed over the rushing wind, “Solo Inflightus!”

As he continued to push forward, the two sleek brooms holding the finish line banner suddenly lurched, flying straight at Draco. All three brooms continued to pick up speed until Draco smashed through the banner – which flashed the words, “I can’t believe you won!!!! I bet against you.” – ripping it violently from its anchors.

Draco slowed and arched his way back to the copse of trees where the class was. The Slytherins were cheering and punching the air, pointing at the banner which was now flashing, “This news just in… a Slytherin victory… Talking finish line as surprised as anyone.” The Gryffindors seemed to have been stunned into silence.

Draco landed gently in the middle of the Slytherins, accepting congratulatory pats on the back.

Madam Hooch opened her mouth as if she was going to say one thing, then with a glance at Professor Snape, who as head of Slytherin House was now applauding enthusiastically, closed it again. Taking in the scene around her, she finally announced, “Well that was unexpected. I suppose it is true what they say, Slytherins usually manage to find a way to win. Thirty points for Slytherin.”

A cry emerged, voiced first from Weasley, but quickly repeated by half the Gryffindor class. “He cheated!” Draco wasn’t phased. He had been expecting this ever since he’d first found the spell in the library.

“You said we couldn’t use a Summoning charm,” Potter yelled.

“Technically, it wasn’t a Summoning charm,” Hermione explained in a much calmer voice. “He merely set the brooms free to fly as they chose, although considering the way they were facing they were almost bound to fly in that direction.”

But neither Hermione’s explanation, nor Madam Hooch’s argument that the final judgment over the race was up to the banner and it had declared Draco the winner, did anything to mollify the angry Gryffindors. In moments chaos erupted. Shouts and taunts mingled with pushes and shoves. With two teachers present nobody was willing to actually throw a punch but a fight was obviously breaking out anyway with Draco, flanked by Greg and Crabbe, in the middle. Seamus Finnegan’s nose was “accidentally” bloodied by Dianna as bodies crashed together. Draco stumbled and fell with Potter falling on top of him, slowing his own fall by shoving his hand into Draco’s face. Arguing voices competed with shouts from Madam Hooch to break things up.

Blood pounding in his ears, Draco was about to smash Potter in the side of the head, teachers or no teachers, when Potter was pulled backwards off of him. To Draco’s surprise it was not Crabbe or Greg who’d done the pulling but rather Hermione who was loudly admonishing Potter, “Leave him alone, Harry! It’s over. We’re not going to prove anything by being sore losers.”

The battle ended as quickly as it began as Hermione’s action seemed to have stunned the gathered students into silence. As Draco struggled to his feet he was acutely aware of the many eyes looking from him to Hermione to Potter and back again. He also noticed that his own mother was looking at the gathering with a disdainful expression. Was she just upset by the fracas, or was she angry that her son was being protected by a Gryffindor from a Muggle family, someone who the elder Malfoys would consider a stain on the wizarding world?

Dusting his robes off, heart still pounding furiously, Draco muttered something that he would later end up regretting deeply for the rest of his life. He tried to say it quietly, meaning it only for his mother’s ears, but it came out loud enough for Hermione to hear as well.

“As if I need Mudblood filth like you to stick up for me.”

Hermione said nothing. She just stared straight ahead, lips clenched. Draco whirled around, eyes now firmly fixed on the front entrance to the castle, and stalked away, still grasping the Tinderblast but leaving the crumpled banner lying in the dirt.

Narcissa Malfoy watched her son walk away. Beaming with pride, she whispered to Professor Snape, “I see that you have taught them well, Severus.”


	20. Third Time’s the Charm

By that weekend the air had turned cold again, leading some to speculate that the grey clouds might actually bring snow despite the lateness of the season. Few students went outside, and many lingered extra long over meals in the rambunctious chaos of the Great Hall.

Slytherin house had been penalized forty house points for the fight after the race, but that did nothing to dampen their spirits because Gryffindor had been penalized forty points as well. And with Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff so far behind in the race for the House Cup, the tussle and the ensuing punishment was regarded with pride rather than anything else.

Now, days later, the fight was still the main source of conversation at the Slytherin table as people repeated – yet again – who pushed whom, and what had been said, and who started what.

Theodore Nott’s voice rose loudest over the scrum. “I forget his name, the little blighter, he was trying to step on my foot so I gave him a little shot in the ribs. You know, just under his robes, not so as the teachers would see.”

Other voices replaced Theodore’s, not adding anything new to the story but revelling in the retelling.

For his part, Draco was considered a bit of a hero. He had won the race, and in the process had won Greg a small fortune, which was impressive in itself. But the way he had circumvented the rules (and been the cause of the whole mini-war) without receiving any personal punishment was admired just as much, although the consensus seemed to be that if Professor Snape hadn’t been watching the race, things might have turned out a little differently.

On the surface, Draco played along with the party atmosphere, joining in with the conversations and accepting slaps on the back and words of congratulations with an easy smile. He was happy to explain again and again how he had gotten the idea of how to win the race from Professor Sinistra’s lecture about the quickest way two objects can come together. Inside, however, he didn’t feel much like celebrating.

Waiting until Crabbe and Greg had just loaded some more food on to their plates, Draco claimed that he needed to go to the washroom and slipped, alone, out of the Great Hall.

He knew he would eventually have to make some excuse about where he had gone and why he hadn’t come back, but Draco didn’t care. He just wanted to be alone to think for a while. Making his way upstairs, where he was less likely to happen across other Slytherins, he padded his way around the castle in search of a quiet spot.

He didn’t regret his actions during the race. In fact, he was quite proud of how it had turned out and thought that the Gryffindors were just being poor sports when they had started calling him a cheat. But he was regretting what had happened at the end with Hermione.

She hadn’t said anything – she hadn’t even looked angry – but Draco knew she’d been badly wounded. He knew as well that there would be no more meetings between them in the library or out on the grounds.

But what did he care? It wasn’t like they were good friends or anything. They rarely talked and had virtually nothing in common. Besides, what did she expect? She must have known that standing up for him in front of all the other Slytherins – in front of his own mother – would embarrass him.

But maybe she _didn’t_ know that.

Draco’s mind had been bouncing back and forth like this for days. Sometimes he felt angry. Sometimes he felt like he wanted to rush straight off to Hermione and apologize. But he doubted it would do any good, even if he could get close enough to talk to her.

He tried to blame other people for what had happened. Madam Hooch should have stepped in earlier. Potter should have flown a little bit faster or a little bit slower. His mother should have watched from a respectful distance, or should not have watched at all.

Thinking of his mother brought up the other subject that was bothering Draco and he felt his stomach lurch.

Had she really come to Hogwarts just to talk to Professor Trelawney and visit him? Why then had he seen so little of her and why was she with Professor Snape on Thursday? Was she trying to find out what Professor Snape knew about the return of the Dark Lord? That had been _his_ idea. Draco loved his mother but _he_ was the one who was supposed to figure out what Professor Snape was up to. He’d been fantasizing about it – about the praise he would get – for months.

Heart pounding, Draco made a decision. He was going to sneak into Professor Snape’s office and he was going to do it _tonight_.

 

*

 

As soon as Draco stepped through the wall into the Slytherin common room, Greg and Crabbe glommed onto him like a couple of vampire bats, demanding to know where he had disappeared to this time.

Inspired by a boldness that he didn’t want to examine too closely in case it went away, Draco ushered his friends over to an empty spot where two sofas sat facing each other.

He took one deep breath, still not sure if he should do what he was about to do.

“Gregory, Vincent…” No, that sounded too formal. Draco tried again in a quiet voice. “Guys, listen. I’m going to tell you something but you can’t tell anyone.”

Crabbe stated, “No worries, mate,” reassuringly, while Greg just gave a solemn nod.

Looking into their eyes, Draco continued, “Maybe I should have told you this a long time ago, but I wasn’t sure if I should. Not because I don’t trust you,” Draco quickly added though he wasn’t sure if that was exactly true, “but because I know this is something that my father wouldn’t want to be common knowledge, so I just thought it would be best if I kept it to myself.”

Crabbe interjected, “Like I said, no worries, Draco. Everyone knows your father is a man to be listened to. If he wants to keep it hush hush we’ll take it to our graves, won’t we, Greg?” Greg gave another serious nod.

“Okay.” All three boys leaned in a little closer as Draco whispered, “Remember how, at the rally at Christmas, my father said that some people had thought they’d seen or felt signs that the Dark Lord might be returning?”

“Sure.”

“Well, he told me that the signs seemed strongest around here, or rather right here. Here at Hogwarts.”

“You-Know-Who is here at Hogwarts?”

“I don’t know. No one really knows. Some people thinks it’s a rumour. Some people say they’ve felt his presence and others say they haven’t. Anyway, my father says that if anybody can answer that question it’s Professor Snape because he’s right here at Hogwarts”

“Of course. That just makes sense,” Crabbe agreed.

“He was at the Christmas Rally.” Greg spoke for the first time, sounding as though he’d just made a very deep discovery.

“Yes he was, and apparently he has ways of detecting the presence of the Dark Lord, but if he has learned something he isn’t telling anyone. So I’ve decided to find out what he knows.”

Crabbe actually laughed out loud, causing a few people to look in their direction, but he slipped back into a whisper before saying, “How do you plan to manage that? I mean unless Professor Snape suddenly decides you’re his best friend and he just needs to get some things off his chest, you’re not likely to figure out what’s really going on, are you?”

With a jerk of his head Draco indicated that they should go down to the Cave. It was 0nly when they were seated around the little table in their dormitory away from any prying ears that Draco stunned his two friends by telling them, “I’m going to break into his office and see what’s there.”

“His office?”

“Yeah, maybe I’ll find something. Maybe he keeps a journal. I don’t know, but I’m going to try.”

Crabbe, not sure if Draco was just teasing, squeezed his face into a sceptical expression. “You’re bold, mate, I’ll grant you that. What with your late night visits to the Swamp and your little ‘moving the goalposts manoeuvre, I know you’ve got guts, but come on now. I can’t believe even you would try to pull off something like this. I mean sneaking into a Professor’s office? Even if your dad is on the Board of Governors, I bet you’d get bundled out of Hogwarts in a second if you got caught.”

“I’ve already done it,” Draco said. “Twice.” Greg’s mouth literally fell open and Draco clarified, “Well, I didn’t actually get in both times. The second time I tried was the night McGonagall caught me in the hallways, thanks to that noisy prat Longbottom.”

“So you’ve already busted into his office? What did you see?”

“Nothing much that we haven’t seen before from dropping off assignments there. There are tons of potion ingredients, and some personal stuff too I guess. But I didn’t have a lot of time to do any real snooping. I was only in there for a couple of minutes before McGonagall and Professor Snape suddenly showed up.”

“McGonagall again? She’s haunting you, she is,” Crabbe sympathized. “Didn’t they catch you?”

“No. As they came in they were arguing and they were paying so much attention to each other I managed to slip out.” Even though he was finally opening up to his friends, he didn’t tell them about drinking the Chameleon potion that he’d found in Professor Snape’s office. The story sounded much more impressive if he slipped out right under two teachers’ noses.

Shaking his head, Crabbe said, “Why didn’t you tell us? If we’d known you were going to do something so stupid, we would have wanted to be in on it. Wouldn’t we, Greg?”

Gregory Goyle gave a mischievous smile.

Draco smiled back, and told his friends that now was their chance to join him in doing something very stupid indeed.

“I’m putting on my black shirt,” announced Crabbe.

Draco got up too and fetched his magical hole. He still hadn’t told Crabbe and Greg about it, but they’d have to know now. When he came back out Greg and Crabbe were both still in their bedrooms.

“Er, guys… There’s something I have to show you.”

“Out in a minute, mate.”

“Greg?”

“Mmmph?”

Draco noticed Greg’s door was, strangely, ajar. Ever since he’d had it installed, Greg always kept his door closed. He even put a charm on it every time he went in or out so that no one else could open it. Apparently that had been the one spell he’d already learned before he’d come to Hogwarts. But today, in his hurry to change and embark on their adventure, he’d left it hanging open. Draco took this as an invitation to come inside.

“What the…?”

Greg stood up and whirled around. Behind him was a cage containing a large white bunny. “What are you doing in here? It’s… it’s not what it looks like!”

“What do you mean, it’s not what it looks like? Because, I’ll tell you, it looks a lot like a rabbit. So what is it really then, a dolphin?”

Crabbe, hearing the commotion, joined them. “Crikey, so that’s what this has all been about then?”

“What what’s been all about?”

“The locked up room, you always being first to bed and last out in the morning, not to mention all those vegetables you’ve been smuggling in.”

“And always complaining about the cats prowling around,” Draco added.

“Right, and complaining about the cats. You know you could have just told us.”

“But rabbits are against the rules. You got the letter, it said you may bring ‘an owl or a cat or a toad’ – nothing about bunnies.”

“Weasley brought a rat. Remember? It bit you.”

“Yeah, but guys like him get special treatment, don’t they? My rabbit would be taken away in a second if the teachers ever found out about him.”

“Still, we wouldn’t have told on you.”

Draco just nodded in agreement.

“You see it’s all about trust, mate. We can’t keep secrets from each other. First Draco’s sneaking into offices and not telling us. Then there’s you with your little pet, who’s awfully cute by the way. But it’s just causing problems and misunderstandings, isn’t it? From now on we’ve just got to be open with each other.”

“What’s the ruddy CCLL then?”

“That’s none of your business, is it?”

“What!” Greg burst out. “First Draco comes clean, then you bust in here and find out about Sir Nibbles, so my secret’s out, but you get to stay mum?”

“Sir Nibbles?”

“Yeah, that’s his name. Sir Nibbles. But that’s not the point! The point is, it’s your turn. Draco and I haven’t got any more secrets.”

“Oh,” Draco interrupted. “That reminds me. I never did tell you about my magical portal-hole-thingy, did I?”

 

*

 

Draco stuffed his hole and the phial containing the remainder of the Chameleon potion into his robe pockets, and then led his friends out of the common room as casually as possible. It was late enough that the castle would be relatively empty, but early enough that they were still allowed to be wandering around.

The plan was that Greg and Crabbe would stand guard outside Professor Snape’s office while Draco went in. Greg suggested that if Professor Snape came along they could alert Draco by loudly asking questions about their Potions homework, but this idea was quickly discarded as too improbable and likely to make the Professor suspicious. Instead they decided that Greg and Crabbe would just practice some moderately destructive spells, like the one that caused shoelaces to catch on fire – spells that were just a bit dodgy, but not so bad that they would get into serious trouble if they were caught doing them. It would be assumed that they’d just been trying to find a quiet place where no one would see them up to a bit of mischief.

While Greg and Crabbe made straight for the door of Professor Snape’s office, Draco hurried off to the alcove above. He was relieved not to meet anyone – especially not Longbottom – on the way. He skulked in the recess of the alcove, waiting a few more minutes just to make sure that his friends had enough time to take up their positions. Taking one more quick glance up and down the hall, he spread the magical hole out onto the floor a few inches over from where he’d placed it the last time, hoping that this would put him right above the desk below. Giving the suit of armour a wink while placing one finger over his lips and ordering it to “shhhhh,” Draco hopped into the hole. It was only as he whisked through the portal that he had the unpleasant thought, “What if Professor Snape is in his office?”

Suddenly expecting the worst, Draco landed with a grunt on the desk, whose legs creaked ominously on impact. Dizzy from a surge of adrenaline, Draco quickly flashed his eyes around the room, showing him that he was alone after all. Feeling too relieved to reprimand himself for not thinking that the office might not be empty, Draco hopped down to the floor.

Outside, Greg and Crabbe heard the heavy thump of Draco landing.

“What if he accidentally came down head first?” Greg asked.

“Could that happen?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t told us a lot about this hole of his.”

“Good point.” Crabbe thought for a moment. “Well, let’s give him a bit. I mean if he doesn’t come to the door for a while we’ll know something’s wrong.”

“How long do we wait?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t really talk about that did we? Maybe we should knock?”

“I’m not knocking,” Greg spat out. “What if Professor Snape’s in there? We could get in trouble.”

Draco, hearing his friends arguing in the hall, opened the office door. “Keep it down, will you?”

“I told you he was all right, mate.”

“You did not.”

“Listen,” hissed Draco. “If any students come along, just try to get rid of them. If a teacher comes, talk to them loudly enough that I can hear you through the door. I need to know if you’re getting chased off and I’ll need to know even more if Professor Snape is coming.”

“We’ve got you covered,” Crabbe said reassuringly as he pulled out his wand. “But remember, if you find anything, I want you to put in a good word for me with your dad when you tell him.”

Draco gently closed the door.

“Lumos.” Draco lit up his wand tip, even though the room was already illuminated by the usual flickering torches, and directed its light into some of the more shadowy recesses.

Professor Snape’s office hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d sneaked into it. Despite its roominess, the chamber still seemed cluttered. The tables, counters, and shelves were all filled with collections of parchment and containers of every size and make. Many of the glass vessels held thick viscous liquids, some with objects (both alive and dead) suspended in the ominous contents.

One uncluttered piece of furniture was the mirror stand that still sat near the centre of the room. The wand light played over its wooden frame and the simple-looking wooden chair that faced it. Draco wondered again why there was no mirror but instead just a plain sheet of glass where the mirror should be.

Draco moved on, slowly working his way around the outside of the room. He briefly glanced over seemingly endless potions ingredients, wondering why Professor Snape didn’t store more of this in the classroom. A stack of handwritten parchments tucked under a stone bust of an owl looked promising, hinting of written secrets and private correspondence, but they proved to be nothing more than student assignments along with some lecture notes.

Draco turned finally to Professor Snape’s desk. He’d purposefully saved it for last, imagining that it would hold some treasure trove of information. The surface contained just the usual clutter – piles of old assignments, a quill, a half-eaten apple. The only decorative objective was a small off-white cone, grooved with a smooth swirl, that was held up by an even smaller stand.

The first two drawers of the desk didn’t offer up anything of interest either, just more collections of dull office supplies. Professor Snape seemed adequately endowed with ink and blank parchment, but Draco found no journals, no incriminating personal letters. When the lower desk drawers proved to be locked Draco’s hopes rose. This must be where Professor Snape kept his secrets. Finally. But when his confident casting of the Alohamora Spell failed to unlock the drawers, Draco’s spirits sank again.

He slumped down in the high backed chair behind the desk. He kicked it and then set to brooding. What had he been hoping for? Some journal to be sitting open to a page reading, “Dear Diary, today I found the Dark Lord. I locked him in the closet in my bedroom and I hope Lucius Malfoy doesn’t find out. Sincerely, Severus Snape.” Of course this had all been a foolish chase. If Professor Snape was trying to keep secrets, why would he leave some crucial information just lying around waiting to be noticed?

If Draco hadn’t been so busy ruminating, he would have been more acutely aware of how long he’d been in the office. Sifting through every parchment and inspecting every corner had kept him occupied much longer than he’d intended, and even though it was late on a Saturday evening, sooner or later somebody would stumble across his hole, still sitting in the alcove above, or come down the dungeon corridor past Professor Snape’s office. As fate would have it, that inevitable person was the one person the three boys least wanted it to be.

“Mr Goyle and Mr Crabbe, what exactly do you think you are doing?” Professor Snape’s voice was muffled by the thick office door, but Draco knew exactly who was speaking. Heart sinking, he plunged his hand into his pocket and grabbed the potion that he hoped would save him from discovery for a second time. It obviously worked well, but this time there would be no distractions caused by a bickering Professor McGonagall.

Crabbe and Greg (mostly Crabbe) gamely tried to engage Professor Snape in conversation, arguing about how late it really was and whether or not what they were doing was really against the rules, trying to buy Draco enough time to hide, which, to the best of their knowledge, was the plan.

Draco unstoppered the potion and swallowed it in one gulp. Only when the strangely sticky-sweet flavour hit his taste buds did he realize that something was wrong. He looked down at his body. It wasn’t changing colour. His robes were still black. He inspected the tube in his hand but it gave no indication of what he’d just drunk.

Professor Snape wasn’t interested in what Crabbe and Greg had to say and simply castigated them for making a mess, ordering them to get back to the common room “immediately.” Turning, he opened his office door.

Thrusting his hand back into his robe’s pocket, Draco pulled out a second phial. It was labelled “Chameleon” and still half full. Then the realization struck. The elixir he had just swallowed was the Shrinking potion that he’d made in class – the one to which he had added the root from the Swamp. His idea about quickly drinking the other potion was pushed out of his head when he saw Professor Snape – not because he’d been caught, but because Draco had never seen anyone so large in his entire life.

Professor Snape swept into the office, swinging the door closed behind himself. His giant foot smashed to the ground alarmingly close to Draco who was now only one inch tall. The buffeting air as the Professor’s cloak whipped past tumbled Draco over onto the stone floor.

Picking himself up, he felt simultaneously exhilarated and frightened. On the surface he felt immense relief that despite drinking the entirely wrong potion, he had gotten exactly what he had hoped for: Professor Snape was oblivious to his presence in this office. He also couldn’t help being more than a little impressed by the strength of his potion as he thought, “That really must have been Grundlewood root I found. I suppose Blue did try to kill me, but at least he was telling the truth about being able to show me a Grundlewood tree.”

However, his positive feelings and thoughts about what grade he could have received in Potions class if he’d submitted _this_ potion were tempered by a thought that warned him of the very real peril he was in. Small though he may be, Professor Snape might still spot Draco – if he didn’t accidentally crush him first.

Scanning the horizon and hoping not to see any insects, Draco began to jog towards the crack under the office door, which now appeared to be a depressingly long distance away. He froze when Professor Snape spoke. “Yes, I’m thinking about that. Again.”

Again, a flood of relief washed over Draco when he realized that Professor Snape wasn’t addressing him, but rather was talking to himself.

Turning, Draco saw that the Professor had seated himself on the wooden chair facing the object that Draco had thought was a mirror-less mirror frame. For a moment, that’s what it continued to look like. Professor Snape was staring at the glass, and even from his perspective on the floor Draco could see Professor’s Snape’s face looking back from the glass. Curious that it had apparently changed from being plain glass to being a mirror, Draco noticed that the Professor Snape staring back was not exactly the same as the one sitting in the chair. He was remarkably similar, but there were some little differences. The collar of his robe was higher but his hair was shorter, and while the real Professor Snape was shifting restlessly in his chair, the image remained placid with only its eyes shifting slightly.

Professor Snape muttered, “But what is it that I desire? Until I know _that_ clearly I can’t know how to proceed. I feel the same as I always have, but there is a question of how much risk one is willing to take in order to make a point.”

The image replied calmly, speaking in a monotone. “Then it is not what you desire that is the issue. It is a simple matter of choosing what to do – whether to do as you feel you should, or to betray those feelings and make the more pragmatic choice. More understanding of what you want or feel will serve no purpose.”

“I suppose,” the real Professor Snape spoke again in a disappointed tone. “It just seems like I’m overlooking something. I’ve considered all the options and none seem right.”

“Have you considered that perhaps you should just let the Potter boy die this time?”

Draco’s heart soared. He had no idea what this strange exchange between the two Professor Snapes meant or what Potter had to do with anything, but he finally had something. He could tell his father what he’d heard and what he’d done to get into the position of hearing it. Maybe he could even pretend that the Shrinking potion had all been part of his plan.

Unfortunately, Draco’s good spirits didn’t last, because for the second time that evening he’d made the mistake of lingering too long in Professor Snape’s office. Despite having made a very impressive and effective Shrinking potion (for a first try), he had inadvertently boiled the chaffinch feather too quickly when he’d been preparing it, which led to the potion wearing off far more quickly than it otherwise would have.

If what the mirror had said either shocked or intrigued Professor Snape, he had shown no reaction. Instead he seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. When he finally opened his mouth to speak, he stopped before uttering a word. Instead, his attention drawn by the disturbance behind him, he turned in time to see Draco Malfoy – now the size of a house-elf – growing rapidly in his office.


	21. The Dark Arts

An ominous silence filled the chamber. The only noise was the sound of Professor Snape’s index finger tapping lightly against the chair leg. Draco knew it was just the calm before the storm and grew steadily more anxious as the calm stretched on. Shrieks of anger or threats of stiff punishments would be better than this silence, yet the seconds continued to tick by. The Potions Master, who initially looked more frightened than angry, seemed to master his emotions. His face grew placid and he quietly studied Draco, now standing full sized in front of him. Even his finger stopped tapping.

With a slow blink, Professor Snape inhaled to speak but what he said caught Draco off guard. “Was it your mother?”

“Excuse me, Sir?” Draco didn’t know what to make of the question.

“No. It was your father who put you up to this?” It was phrased like a statement, but the tone indicated that a question was being asked.

“Put me up to it, Sir?” Draco responded, as politely as he could, not wanting to test the Professor’s patience any further.

“Coming into my office. Something or someone motivated you. At least I hope so. I do hope this is more than some prank dreamed up by you or by one of those friends lurking in the hallway outside.”

“Y-Yes, Sir… or… no, Sir,” Draco stammered. “No, it’s not a prank.”

“So it was your father, then?” Professor Snape didn’t sound angry, only vaguely curious. In fact, his voice was rather reassuring, as if he was addressing someone who had come to his office in search of a sympathetic ear.

“No, not exactly. It was my idea.” Draco immediately regretted his words, as they seemed to further implicate his father rather than the opposite.

“Hmm. You do seem to have made some regrettable decisions lately. Speaking of which, I’m sorry about that run-in you had with that Gryffindor girl after your race. Believe it or not, I know exactly how you must feel about that.”

Silence once again filled the room. Draco, baffled at the professor’s reaction, glanced over at the mirror and was startled to see that Professor Snape’s reflection had disappeared.

“It’s a Cerebakan. You haven’t seen one before?”

“No. What does it do?” asked Draco.

“In a sense it does nothing. The wizard…” – Professor Snape seemed to search for the right explanation for a few moments – “…places himself inside, so the device knows what he knows. Hence the mirror is really just a reflection of oneself, but it only holds knowledge, memories, and facts – not emotions. Cerebakens were very popular a number of years ago. The idea was that one could seek advice about how to solve a problem and the reflection could give sensible council untainted by fears, dreams, or the general distracting background noise of the emotional mind. In truth, however, most people found its usefulness rather limited. Making choices without taking into account how you feel about those choices is foolish, no matter how clear the reasoning. As a result, Cerebakens fell out of fashion as quickly as they had come in. Personally I still find the device interesting enough to keep around. It is amusing if nothing else.”

The Potions Master rubbed his fingers together, removing some small bits of dirt from the tips. With his eyes on his fingers rather than on Draco he continued, “But I suppose our conversation must move from idle chat, interesting as it may be, to the rather more pressing issue at hand.”

Professor Snape rose and made his way to the door. Opening it, he announced, “Good. It would appear that Misters Goyle and Crabbe have wisely returned to where they should be. For present purposes, let us pretend they were merely messing about in the hallways a bit later than they should have been and leave them out of this.”

Draco was happy to agree, taking some small reassurance in the fact that he hadn’t gotten his friends into trouble too. He was sure the storm was about to break and that Professor Snape would announce a most dire punishment, but the Professor did not. In fact he continued to seem quite unperturbed, still talking in a collected manner as he returned to his chair.

“Is this about the Philosopher’s Stone, Draco?”

“Is what about the Philosopher’s Stone?”

“Is your little night time excursion into my private office about the Philosopher’s Stone? Is your father wondering why I never told him it was here at Hogwarts?”

“Umm… no, Sir.”

Professor Snape studied Draco’s confused expression. “Doesn’t matter. Feel free to go ahead and tell him that the Stone _is_ here. It’s not exactly a well-kept secret anyway. With so many people involved in moving it, storing it, putting up protections for it, half the country already knows where it is anyway. But if that isn’t why you are here then it must be about _Him_.”

“Him, sir?”

“You know who I mean, Draco.”

“The Dark Lord?”

“Indeed. I should have guessed something like this would happen. The last time I saw Lucius Malfoy was at your estate during the Christmas Break. At the time he was obviously more than a little curious about what to make of the signs of the Dark Lord’s return. ‘Have you felt anything? Have you seen anything?’ My answer of ‘No, I haven’t,’ never seemed to satisfy. Perhaps his persistence was due to the fact that he somehow guessed I was lying.

“Lying? You mean he’s here? You’ve seen the Dark Lord?”

“No, I haven’t seen him. But I’ve felt enough to know that he is, indeed, here.”

“But why… why didn’t you tell anyone?”

Professor Snape leaned forward slightly, his face showing just a hint of amusement. “You are wondering about my loyalty to the Dark Lord – wondering why I haven’t sought him out and why I haven’t immediately shouted out the good news to his followers. The answer is simple. The Dark Lord cares less about enthusiasm than he does about results. I know that the he could reveal himself openly if he wanted to, but if he chooses to act in secret then he must have his reasons. Seeking him out, spreading the word of his presence, when that is obviously what he does not want, would only anger him. He knows that he can count on me to act with intelligence and discretion, and perhaps that is why he trusts me above so many others.”

After a lengthy silence, while Draco tried – and failed – to formulate any sort of reply at all, Professor Snape spoke again. “I am sure you will feel obligated to tell your father what you have learned here tonight, but I caution both of you against spreading this information any further. I am convinced that the Dark Lord wants his presence here to remain a secret. I don’t have any idea how he would react if what we’ve been discussing was repeated in the wrong company.”

Professor Snape gave a rather forced and not very reassuring smile. “Now let us put this topic behind us. After all, the least we speak about it, the better. Unfortunately, we do have one other bit of unpleasant business to deal with. We do need to deal with the issue of you sneaking into my office, if only for appearances. After all, your friends are probably aware that I caught you in here, and if they know it then most of Slytherin house probably does too by now, so I certainly cannot let you go unpunished.”

“Yes sir,” Draco nodded contritely.

“A few weeks ago you were given a detention by Professor McGonagall for being out of your dorm after midnight, supposedly while trying to catch Potter carrying a dragon. Finding you here tonight leads me to believe you had a slightly different motivation for being out of bed that night.”

Draco flushed guiltily while Professor Snape continued. “At the time, I told Professor McGonagall that I agreed to set the time and activity for your detention. I was planning on having you stay after next class to help me sort out some Potion ingredients. Now, I think I will have you join the Gryffindors in their detention as well. I am not a hundred per cent certain what that entails, but I know you’ll be helping out Hagrid with some chores.”

When Professor Snape told him he could go, Draco bolted, wanting nothing more than to quickly recover his hole and get back to the Cave to try to think things through.

As he was slipping out the door Professor Snape added, “One more thing, Draco. I have to tell you that I am impressed with your Shrinking potion. I may need to raise the grade of your assignment on the subject.”

Draco muttered his thanks, thinking that he’d gotten off far better than he ever could have hoped to.

 

*

A few days later, Draco and Crabbe were sitting by the fire in the Slytherin common room. Almost everyone else had already gone to bed.

“What happened to the door, anyway?” Draco stared at the gaping entrance to the boy’s dormitory. The button, along with the door it was attached to, had disappeared completely.

“No idea. It was just gone when Greg and I got back from class. I imagine the girls have it.”

Greg was down in his bedroom making sure that no cats got in to pester Sir Nibbles.

Crabbe looked at the message that had arrived for Draco a few hours earlier.

 

_Your detention will take place at eleven o’clock tonight. Meet Mr Filch in the Entrance Hall._

_Professor S. Snape_

 

“You know what would be funny? If you got in trouble for wandering the halls at eleven at night on your way to detention,” Crabbe chuckled.

Draco laughed too as he got up to leave.

“Thanks for not ratting us out by the way. I can’t believe Professor Snape didn’t figure out that we were in on it with you.”

“Er, yeah,” Draco, agreed even though he knew it wasn’t true. After Professor Snape’s warning, he was back to keeping secrets from his friends. “Well, thanks for waiting up with me. I guess I’d better get going.”

Draco arrived at the Entrance Hall at exactly eleven o’clock. His tension about what exactly this bizarrely late ‘detention’ entailed warded off any sleepiness he might have otherwise felt. Mr Filch, without his usual companion of Mrs Norris the cat, was already waiting there. Running his hand through his long greasy thinning hair, Mr Filch grumbled, “Where’s the rest of your lot?”

“My lot?”

“The rest of you rulebreakers that we caught running around playing dragon games in the castle that night.”

“They’re not _with_ me. They’re not even in my house!” The prospect of serving out the detention with just himself and Mr Filch might have been more than a little creepy, but he was looking forward to seeing Potter – or for that matter Hermione – even less. Draco hadn’t spoken to Hermione since the last Flying Class.

“A likely story,” Mr Filch grumbled, though he seemed to accept it as he leaned back against a wall and began studying the ground.

Five minutes later the sound of footsteps drew their attention to the marble staircase, and Longbottom, Potter, and Hermione joined them. None of the Gryffindors met Draco’s gaze. He studied Hermione’s face intently, trying to see what she was thinking, but she gave no impression that she even noticed Draco was there.

“It’s about ruddy time,” Mr Filch grumbled. “Now follow me.” He lit a lamp and led them out into the cool night air. As they crossed the wet grass, Mr Filch continued to grumble about the punishments the children should be receiving if he had his way, though he sounded in a jolly enough mood that they knew that whatever was coming would be bad.

As they marched, the Forbidden Forest drew closer and closer. The moon was either full or close enough to it to light up the grounds whenever its rays could slice through a hole in the clouds. Despite their growing apprehension, none of the children spoke. Finally a booming voice with a Scottish twang cut through the darkness. “Is that you, Filch? Hurry up, I want ter get started.”

Suddenly bathed in moonlight, the figure of Hagrid the gamekeeper loomed ahead. Potter raised his arm and waved a greeting to Hagrid, much to the chagrin of Mr Filch who snapped, “I suppose you think you’ll be enjoying yourself with that oaf? Well think again, boy – it’s into the forest you’re going and I’m much mistaken if you’ll all come out in one piece.”

Draco spluttered, “The forest? We can’t go in there, especially at night. There’s all sorts of things in there – werewolves, I heard. I mean there’s a reason they call it the Forbidden Forest, isn’t there?”

Longbottom, an unexpected ally, voiced similar reservations in a quieter voice, but Mr Filch either didn’t hear or didn’t care.

A low bark brought the conversation to an end. Hagrid, trailed by a large boarhound, strode up. The gamekeeper seemed to be in a foul mood and grumbled to Mr Filch about the length of time he had been waiting.

“I’ll be back at dawn for what’s left of them,” announced Mr Filch before stalking away towards the castle. As his lantern light faded the small group plunged into semi-darkness.

Hagrid lit his own lamp, illuminating his large shaggy face. He looked grim.

“I’m not going into that forest,” announced Draco once Mr Filch was out of hearing range. Longbottom grunted his agreement.

“Yeh are if yeh want ter stay at Hogwarts,” Hagrid snapped. “Yeh’ve done wrong an’ now yeh’ve got ter pay fer it.”

Hermione suddenly chuckled.

“What are you laughin’ about?” Hagrid asked, puzzled.

“Oh sorry,” Hermione said, her face lit by moonlight that had found a new hole in the clouds. “It’s just that, I mean, you’re lecturing us about how we deserve to be punished, and you’re right, we do. But, it’s a bit ironic because… well, we’re in trouble because we were doing what you…” Hermione trailed off like she’d already said too much.

Draco was confused. What did Hermione mean? Did Hagrid put them up to the trick about there being a dragon at Hogwarts? Why would he do that to Draco? They barely knew each other.

His musings were interrupted by the gamekeeper, looking slightly flustered now, announcing, “Right then, off to the forest. Now listen carefully cause it’s dangerous what we’re gonna do tonight an’ I don’ want no one takin’ risks.”

Hagrid turned and lumbered off. For a few moments no one else moved, and hope surged in Draco that as a group they were going to rebel, but a moment later Potter trailed after Hagrid, followed by Hermione, then Longbottom who gave another nervous grunt, and finally Draco.

Hagrid plunged straight into the trees following a winding path, while the children scampered to keep up. After a couple of minutes he stopped. Holding his light high he pointed to some ferns nestled amongst a patch of twisted tree roots. “Look there…” – he indicated some silvery droplets on the leaves – “And there. See that stuff shinin’ on the ground?” He pointed along the forest floor where scattered patches of the drops rested on the roots and the bare earth. They looked like liquid, but for some reason, they didn’t soak into the soil. “That’s unicorn blood. There’s a unicorn in there bin hurt badly by summat. This is the second time in a week. I found one dead last Wednesday. We’re gonna try an’ find the poor thing. We might have ter put it out of its misery.”

Hagrid shuttered his lantern, plunging the group into near total darkness. As their eyes adjusted, Hermione let out an audible gasp. “Look at it!”

As the thin moonlight which filtered through the trees hit the droplets, they flashed a mixture of swirling silver, white and pale blue.

“Aye, it’s beautiful. Or it might seem so if yer didn’t know wut caused it. At least this gives us a way ter follow the trail.”

A cracking noise in the distance, as if something had stepped on a dead branch deeper in the forest, drew their attention to the shadowy gloom all around them.

“And what if whatever hurt the unicorn finds us first?” Draco asked.

Hagrid, not sounding angry now, just a bit sad, answered, “There’s nothin’ that lives in the forest that’ll hurt yeh if yer with me or Fang. Right, now, we’re gonna split inter two parties an’ follow the trail in diff’rent directions. There’s blood all over the place, it must’ve bin staggerin’ around since last night at least.”

Draco, eyeing up the boarhound’s strong body and long teeth, volunteered to stick with Fang.

“All right,” Hagrid agreed, “but I warn yeh, he’s a coward.” Draco wasn’t sure if the gamekeeper was kidding.

Hagrid pointed along the path they’d been following, where the unicorn blood was now clearly visible. “Me, Harry, an’ Hermione’ll go one way an’ Draco, Neville, an’ Fang’ll go the other. Now if any of us finds the unicorn, we’ll send up green sparks, right? Get yer wands out an’ practice now – that’s it – an’ if anyone gets in trouble, send up red sparks, an we’ll all come an’ find yeh – so be careful! Let’s go.”

Hagrid, Harry, and Hermione stumped off into the forest following the flashing spattered trail. Draco, Neville, and Fang watched them go, Fang whining audibly, as if to prove that Hagrid hadn’t been exaggerating about his lack of bravery.

The rush of relief Draco had felt when he realized that he wouldn’t have to face the awkwardness of being left alone with either Hermione or Potter was quickly replaced with trepidation. With a glance at the large moon, and with thoughts of werewolves fresh in his head, the forest suddenly seemed alive with new noises.

Each boy considered suggesting leaving right now and accepting whatever new punishment would come, but when their eyes finally met they just exchanged resigned shrugs and set off, following the unicorn’s path which led them deeper into the forest.

As they wound their way around trees, stumbled over roots, and passed through the occasional clearing, Fang grew quiet. He too seemed resigned – though not enthusiastic – about this pursuit. The trail of droplets waxed and waned. At times it was easy to follow, the droplets becoming larger and closer together, giving the impression that it was dramatically coming to a conclusion. At other times it seemed to fade away, hinting that it might disappear altogether. It was at one of these moments, as the boys cast around, looking deeper amongst the dark trees, that a sound like an inhuman cry cut through the leaves.

The boys froze. Longbottom spoke first. “What was that? Was that an animal?” He fumbled out his wand, but then dropped it onto the forest loam.

Something, a branch probably, snapped in the same direction the cry had come from.

“Hurry up, hurry up,” said Draco, frozen to the spot.

Longbottom scrambled around, found his wand again, and pointed it forward. “Lumos.” The wand fizzed and crackled, threatening to not illuminate. Draco was pulling out his own wand when Longbottom’s finally sprang to life, giving off a faint beam which just seemed to accentuate the immense darkness and shadows around them.

Draco leaned forward, putting his hand on Longbottom’s shoulder, and asked, “What…”

He didn’t get to finish his question as at Draco’s touch Longbottom shrieked and launched himself forward, smacking his own head into a branch.

He turned his wand so the beam, now seeming surprisingly bright, shone straight into Draco’s face, and shouted, “What did you do that for?”

“Do what?”

“Sneak up on me like that?”

“I didn’t sneak up on you! I was right here the whole time. I was just trying to see what you were looking at.”

The boys, forgetting their fear of whatever may have been lurking just out of their vision, continued to jabber at each other, urged on by a suddenly reinvigorated Fang who was barking wildly, until finally in a huff Longbottom set off a flare of red sparks. “I’m telling Hagrid on you.”

Longbottom and Draco were still bickering when crashing of timber signalled the arrival of Hagrid, who was not happy to discover that there hadn’t actually been an emergency when Longbottom set his wand off. He fumed as he led the two boys back through the forest, a suddenly happy Fang galumphing around his feet. Five minutes later he had them back with Potter and Hermione.

Still grumbling about the time wasted, Hagrid remade the groups, this time getting Potter, Draco, and Fang to continue following the path Potter had been on, while the other three plunged back through the forest.

Potter and Draco hadn’t spoken since the race, not even to tease each other, and both kept up this tacit vow of silence as they turned back to their duty of following the unicorn’s trail. Potter led the way, carefully looking for fallen droplets. Draco hung back, watching the ever changing patterns of the trees around them and listening for danger. Fang, now that Hagrid was gone again, slunk along in the rear in a fearful crouch, his tail between his legs.

The procession continued the same way for another half an hour. Draco was amazed at how long the splattered trail had gone on. How could a unicorn even have this much blood?

Potter, reaching the edge of a large clearing, suddenly held up one hand, signalling for Draco to stop. Curious, he crept forward, peering over Potter’s shoulder. There, illuminated in the silver glow of the clearing, was the unicorn. It was lying perfectly still, either sleeping or dead, and it was not alone. A second figure, cloaked and hooded, was skulking in the clearing, now running one arm along the smooth flank of the fallen unicorn.

A branch Potter was leaning on creaked and the cowled figure looked up. The hood shifted slightly and the vaguest outlines of a face could be seen, with two piercing eyes that, for a moment, flashed red.

A new cry rent the still forest air. It took a few moments for Draco to realize that the cry had come from his own throat.

He stumbled through the trees, sweating and gasping for air. He grabbed a tree trunk and bent over, retching. What was happening? As soon as he’d seen that face, emotions crashed through him, beginning in the pit of his stomach and racing up his spine until his head was on fire.

Minutes passed. Draco didn’t know what was going on. Was he sick? Had he been hit by a spell and not noticed? Then, he finally recognized it. He was back home, at the Christmas rally. No, he wasn’t really, but his body remembered the surging waves of feelings he’d experienced then – the same emotions that were washing over him now. He let it come. A tidal wave of anger, hatred, and power. Suddenly he laughed out loud, although only the silent trees heard him. He hadn’t meant to, it just happened. He’d almost forgotten how good it felt to just let the feelings take over. To embrace them.

Thoughts raced through Draco’s mind – there was so much wrong with this world, so much to provoke his justifiable rage. But he could deal with it. He could punish those who deserved it, and his father and his father’s friends would help. And the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord would help too. Draco knew this to be true.

A second wave of emotion gnawed at him, whispering doubts. Whispering that these emotions weren’t his own, that they didn’t make sense. Who exactly was he supposed to hate? Muggles? Half-bloods? What had they done to him, anyway? He tried to ignore it at first. The doubts made him weak. Worse yet, they made him feel guilty, dirty even. He was wracked by another wave of nausea, and was reminded of the morning after the Christmas Rally, when Dobby’d seen him vomit on his bedroom floor.

Trying his best to push both sets of emotions out of his mind, Draco stumbled through the trees, searching for a way out of this living maze. He was sweating, even though it was cold, and it was hard to focus with his eyes welling with tears. He wasn’t sure of the direction but, by skill or by chance, his legs finally carried him to the edge of the forest.

He slumped down on a patch of slick grass underneath the last boughs. Letting himself fall sideways, he closed his eyes and waited for his heart to stop racing. Time passed and the night noises returned. Through sheer exhaustion Draco just stayed on the grass, its dampness soaking through his robes.

Four figures emerged from the trees, not a hundred feet from where Draco lay. Hagrid, lantern held high, led the way.

“Ar yeh sure Draco got out?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Potter answered, “but he was moving pretty fast.”

“I ‘magin I’d better check around in the castle. Probably wouldn’t look too good, losin’ a student an all.”

Draco knew he should call out, but he didn’t. He felt drained, as if he’d been awake for days. He pushed himself up, leaned back against a tree trunk, and watched the lantern slowly weave its way up the hill to the front entrance of Hogwarts.

Another fifteen minutes passed. He was about to finally get up and make his way back to his own dormitory when a rustling sound from behind drew his attention. Spinning around, he saw a faint glow amongst the trees. An internal alarm warned him to run, that it might be the hooded figure, but somehow he knew it wasn’t. This was something different.

Draco walked back into the forest, making no effort to disguise the sound of his footsteps. After about thirty feet he stopped cold, drawing a sharp intake of breath. Standing in front of him, almost close enough to touch, was a unicorn, its glowing horn bathing the space between them in a golden light.

A foolish thought told Draco that this was the unicorn from the clearing, that it had somehow mysteriously come back to life, but it wasn’t. This creature, this _living_ unicorn, seemed to exude waves of feeling the way that average animals gave of smells. Draco could feel love, warmth, purity – but also a profound sadness – radiating from the beautiful being in front of him.

“Hello,” Draco said. It sounded wholeheartedly insufficient for such a meeting, but he didn’t know what else to say.

The unicorn stepped forward and bent its head to the ground until the tip of its horn touched the earth. Draco couldn’t understand what it was doing but he could see its neck muscles straining. It was pushing at the earth, its horn beginning to bend. Suddenly there was a snapping sound. The unicorn whinnied a pitiful cry as its head shot up. It looked up, pain clearly showing on its face, yet no blood dripped from the roots of the shattered horn.

The unicorn stood still, and Draco gradually realized what it was waiting for. He leaned over and picked up the spiralled, cone-shaped tip lying on the ground. It still glowed, though the glow was much weaker now that it had been broken off. The unicorn blinked once, turned, and trotted away.

When his amazement finally faded Draco turned as well, and tramped back towards the castle. His head was still spinning over the evening’s events when he almost walked straight into a tall, slightly stooped figure.

“Good evening, Draco.”

“Professor Dumbledore, Sir. Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

“Understandable, of course. One of the hazards of taking a stroll in the dark, I suppose.”

“Er, I’m not sure if you know sir… I’m not sneaking around. I’m just coming back from detention.”

“Yes, Mr Malfoy, I was aware of that. The last to return I believe. My, that is an interesting object you have.” Albus Dumbledore pointed at the piece of unicorn horn still held in Draco’s hand. Somehow his twinkling eyes had picked it out in the dim light.

Sure he was about to have to explain where he got it, Draco was surprised when the Headmaster asked, "How is school going, Draco?”

“Er… fine I suppose. A bit busy the last little while.”

“Of course, of course. It’s always busy this time of year. And, are you getting along well in Slytherin house? Making friends and so forth?”

Draco answered, “Oh yes, I like a lot of the people there,” even though this seemed like a very strange conversation to be having in the middle of the night.

“Good, good. Over the years there have been many fine and respectable graduates from Slytherin house, though it does have a bad reputation as you must have noticed. Many see how successful those who emerge from Slytherin are, and assume that somehow proves they must not be admirable people. And in truth, if one acts badly and ignores ones conscience, I suppose it can help lead to success. However, as the Sorting Hat once told me, that doesn’t mean the person _has_ no conscience.”

“The Sorting Hat?”

“Oh yes. It is quite remarkably wise, for a hat. People often underestimate it actually, perhaps because it wouldn’t make a very dangerous adversary. It’s not very quick, you see.”

Professor Dumbledore tipped his head. “Well, I’ve nattered enough at you for one evening. You’d best be off to bed. Goodnight, Draco.”

“Goodnight, Professor.”

What a strange coincidence it was to run into the Headmaster just then. Draco had never had a conversation with him before tonight. It was just one more thing to think about at the end of a very long day.


	22. The Bloody Baron’s Purpose

The sun beat down on the grassy lawn, its heat tempered by a perfect breeze – cool and gentle. Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy sat surrounded by books as they revised for their upcoming exams. Crabbe was a short distance away poking at a nest with a long stick he’d found, while Greg emitted rough sporadic snores, having only managed to read about a page of _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ before dozing off.

Pansy closed the book she was studying and absent-mindedly plucked at some clover. “Why was Hagrid looking for you the other night? You could hear him pounding and shouting right through the common room wall, even down in the dorms.”

“We’d gotten separated during detention.”

“Separated? What, like you sneaked out?”

“No.” Draco knew that Pansy was picturing him sitting in some classroom writing “I will not be bad” over and over while Hagrid sat at the front of the room making sure he stayed there. “We were in the forest.”

“The Forbidden Forest?” asked Pansy, her voice shrill with alarm.

“The same.”

Their conversation was interrupted briefly by Crabbe’s shouts as he ran away across the grass, an intelligent looking and unusually large black bird swooping at his head and occasionally pecking him.

“It’s no big deal,” Draco said, hoping that Pansy would think it was a very big deal indeed. “I had to serve my detention in the forest, at night, and Hagrid and I got separated in the dark so I had to make my way out by myself. I don’t know why he rushed down to the common room. Obviously with the size of him I couldn’t have got here first, but I guess he wasn’t hired for his brains.”

Draco was pleased to see that Pansy looked suitably impressed.

“What happened? Did you see anything? In the forest I mean.”

Draco would have loved to blurt out everything that had happened recently – about what Professor Snape had told him, about what had happened in the forest, and especially about the cowled figure and the reaction the figure had stirred up inside Draco. Before Pansy had joined them on the lawn, Draco had given serious thought to talking to Crabbe about it all. He’d even practiced a conversation in his head beginning with, “I have to tell somebody about this and since you’re my best friend…” But, he hadn’t followed through. It had felt too awkward and the idea that Crabbe was his best friend actually depressed Draco, mostly because it was probably true. Sure he spent a lot of time with both Greg and Crabbe – they ate together, they joked and complained together. But did that really qualify them as ‘friends’? As _best_ friends? In truth, Draco had no one he could really talk to about personal things like his thoughts, doubts, and feelings.

Draco looked at Pansy and realized that he couldn’t confide in her any more than he could in Crabbe, Greg, or really anybody else at Hogwarts for that matter. He could tell his parents some things, but he certainly couldn’t talk about other things with them. They always demanded absolute certainty. He suddenly wished his sisters were here. Maybe talking to Ember would make him feel better. She never seemed to be affected by their father’s moods and expectations the way that Draco was.

“I saw a unicorn,” Draco said, finally answering Pansy’s question. He absentmindedly rubbed the horn tip that was now hanging on a necklace, hidden by his robes.

“A unicorn?” Pansy’s face lit up.

“Yeah, I’ll tell you all about it later.” Draco gave her a forced grin, “But I… er… have to get going right now. See you soon,” he added lamely, while hopping to his feet and heading back towards the castle.

Wanting some time to think, Draco strolled around Hogwarts, as he’d so often taken to doing in recent months. He’d learned that as long as you keep moving and you are walking fast enough, people just assumed that you were on your way somewhere and they tended not to question you. His feet led him through the inner courtyard, down into the dungeons, up again to the base of the Astronomy Tower, and then back and forth, slowly descending from floor to floor. He barely paid attention to where his feet were taking him, focused as he was on the thoughts tumbling around inside his mind.

He thought about his father. Draco loved the idea of making his father proud. And why not? All his father wanted was for Draco to become an intelligent leader, someone that others would admire and listen to. The Malfoys were already part of the cream of society, leaders amongst the pure-blood wizarding class, so why shouldn’t Draco take his place there, fighting for the rights of full-blooded wizards and for the things his family stood for?

Yet something felt wrong. Ever since that day after the Christmas Rally, he had known the feeling was there. It seemed to come both from his mind and his heart, or more accurately, from his mind and his stomach.

His mind kept throwing doubts back at him, challenging the concept that pure-blood automatically meant superior. It hadn’t taken him long at Hogwarts to notice that half-bloods or Muggle-borns, while often being a bit behind the pure-bloods when they first arrived at school, learned just as fast and just as well, if not better.

These kind of thoughts just wouldn’t stop tumbling around, especially in the time since his encounter in the Forbidden Forest. There was a host of stories about the strange creatures that inhabited the forest, but somehow he knew that the cowled figure crouching over the fallen unicorn was not some common werewolf or ghoul. He knew, deep down, that it was the Dark Lord himself. One glance from the creature and the feelings of self-righteous anger, entitlement, and hatred raced to the surface. But he’d felt sickened too – a strange mixture of unease, guilt, and nausea. And it was his stomach more than his mind that told him something wasn’t right.

Draco was rounding a corner (oblivious to a painting of carefree boaters waving goodbye to him as they headed off for an afternoon on the lake) when he almost walked headfirst into Abigail Tuft, a cranky older Slytherin who didn’t bother to greet him. He realized that people were making their way to the Great Hall for dinner. Not feeling particularly hungry – or interested in company – Draco instead went in the opposite direction, eventually making his way to the Cave, which he was happy to have all to himself. After crawling into his bed he soon grew drowsy, even though it was hours before his usual bedtime. He drifted off to sleep with a strange mixture of swirling thoughts blending his father’s stern lectures with Hermione’s defense of him after the flying race.

*

 

Draco was standing in a wood-paneled room, dressed in a high-collared crimson robe. He was looking disdainfully at a motley collection of people huddled together. Despite the size of the group, they made no noise at all. In front of him was a family of four, the children clutching the mother’s dress. The father’s shaking hand was holding an identification card, which he passed over to Draco. After a brief glance at the card, Draco pushed it back into the man’s hands.

“Take the lot of them away,” Draco drawled casually, turning his back on the shabby group.

Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle stepped forward brandishing wands. A grinning Crabbe ordered, “You heard the officer. Out you go – to the bus.”

A meek protest was cut short by a cracking sound. Draco didn’t see whose wand had made the sound; his back was already turned. He climbed an elegant staircase covered with burgundy carpet. On the next floor he strode into an office. It was his own office, he realized.

Draco made his way around a polished wooden desk and felt the smoothness of the chair behind it. Instead of sitting down, though, he wandered over to the window. A coating of frost lined the edges, and it was covered by metal bars, but he could still easily see the street below.

A squat green bus, whose windows were also covered with steel bars, was being loaded at the curb. The family being pushed along by Crabbe and Greg were there, but so were many others.

“Disgusting, aren’t they?”

Startled, Draco noticed that his father was standing next to him, though he hadn’t heard Lucius come in to the room. He answered with a non-committal grunt.

A tumble of brown hair drew Draco’s attention to one girl, just as she was stepping into the bus. Squinting, Draco saw that it was Hermione Granger. “Where are they being taken?” slipped out before he could bite it back.

“I don’t know. As far from here as possible, I should hope. Why? Do you care?”

“Not particularly. Just curious,” Draco tried to sound bored.

“You’ve done very well here. Amazing really, considering that you’re only – what – twelve years old?”

“I’m only eleven, actually.”

“Eleven! All the better. Believe me, you are being noticed. Keep this up and you will have a great future. One with great responsibility and great power.”

Draco saw that his father’s eyes had narrowed and were tinged with red.

The door to the office was flung open by a black-robed man wearing a glinting silver mask shaped to resemble a human skull. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Sir, but one of those slated for relocation is refusing to cooperate. He claims to be your uncle, Sir.”

“My uncle?” Draco chuckled. “I’ll give him marks for trying, but everyone knows my father has no brothers.”

“Indeed, I do not,” Lucius added, rolling his red eyes, snorting through his slitted nose, and laughing gently along with his son.

 

*

 

When Draco woke the next morning he couldn’t remember much about his dream. He remembered that his father had been there and something about a bus.

Bad dreams seemed to be the least of his problems, anyway. The next few days were filled with final exams. In his hours spent studying, he realized that there seemed to be an awful lot of information covered in his classes that he had no recollection of. But by the end of the week the tests were done, and most had actually seemed easier than expected. Draco hoped that his grades would be good enough to impress his parents.

A dramatic mood shift descended over the entire school. Everyone seemed giddy, anticipating the summer to come and savouring the chance to forget everything they’d just learned. Draco’s mood changed too, though not necessarily for the better. Instead of the roiling emotions he’d been feeling over the last couple of months, he just felt hollow. He knew he was about to return to Malfoy Manor where he would be expected to listen, learn, and agree with everything his father said. The part of him that wanted to argue, disagree, rebel – that part had missed its chance, now that Draco’s many months away were coming to an end.

 

*

 

It had been a blisteringly hot day yet it was cool in the dungeons, and despite the late hour almost all the Slytherins were awake, celebrating the end of the term. People were running in and out of each others’ dorm rooms. A lot of the older students were having a huge water fight – which the Prefects seemed to have no interest in stopping – squirting each other with jets of cold water from the tips of their wands. Blaise was showing off how he could be punched in the stomach without making a sound, while Theodore was offering to kick him instead. Dianna was cutting her own hair and then magically regrowing it seconds later. Pansy and Daphne were talking about who they would miss and who they wouldn’t miss once Summer Break began. While they talked they casually rolled back and forth the red button, which still had some slivers of wood (the last remnants of the boys' door) attached.

“That’s not fair! I wasn’t ready!” Blaise yelled as he doubled over at Theodore’s feet. He moaned and thrashed wildly around on the floor, looking like some kind of rabid injured animal. Pansy and Daphne, with no idea that Blaise was faking his injury and that the boys had planned this all in advance, stared on wide-eyed while Greg carefully snuck up from behind and grabbed the button.

It was difficult to say which was the most startling, the cracking sound as Greg’s hand closed on the button, the shower of sparks, or Greg himself being thrown back ten feet and crashing to the ground.

As the girls, laughing, went back to their conversation, Draco got up. He was agitated, full of nervous energy. He didn’t know what was causing it, but he felt like there was something wrong tonight and he had an urge to get away and spend some time walking by himself. He hoped that with all the commotion no one would notice him leave.

Draco had almost made it to the door when Crabbe called out, “Where are you off to, mate?”

“Er… Professor Snape said he wanted to see me.”

“Ooooo!” Crabbe smirked. “Did you forget how to make the Forgetfulness potion in the final exam?”

Draco shrugged, “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

Crabbe seemed to accept this excuse, and for a change he didn’t follow along. Neither did Greg, who was still smouldering on the floor, pathetically muttering something about an anti-boy hex.

 

*

 

Calming down took longer than Draco had expected. His mind churned with a thousand thoughts as he crossed and re-crossed the castle. He felt like there had been something important he was supposed to do but he couldn’t remember what it was. He knew he hadn’t really forgotten anything; it was just the same vague anxiety, coupled with a sense that any second he would suddenly remember something terrible.

Inevitably, time passed. He knew he’d been away too long and that it must be well after the hour that students were allowed to be out of their common rooms, but he didn’t think he was likely to get into too much trouble this close to Summer Break.

He was just about to go back when he found himself staring at the door to the off-limits third-floor corridor, a door that, for the first time this year, was open. It was in that moment that Draco had the first of the two very perceptive thoughts he was going to have this evening.

The Philosopher’s Stone must be here. Professor Snape said it was being kept at Hogwarts, and since this was the only off-limits place in the castle, there was nowhere else it could be.

The door was only open a crack, and he was considering taking a peek inside when he was startled by the sound of Peeves. Hogwarts’ resident poltergeist could be heard cackling to himself from a nearby stairwell. Draco shrank back into the shadows and slipped behind a tapestry. He might not get into too much trouble this late in the term, but still, it would be better not to be caught at all and the noisy poltergeist might bring unwanted attention.

Minutes passed as Draco breathed the musty air behind the tapestry, hoping that not too much of his feet were showing. He was starting to get impatient when new sounds came from the stairwell. There were voices, growing steadily louder as they approached. Moments later there came the sound of the footsteps of two or maybe three people, and Draco heard Weasley’s voice saying in a hushed tone, “Brilliant, Harry.”

The footsteps continued and the voices quickly faded into indistinct whispers. Then came a clicking sound followed by silence.

Only then did Draco dare to step out from his hiding spot. The first thing he noticed was that the door to the third-floor corridor was now closed. A low rumbling sound came from beyond the door.

Draco turned and headed down the stairs as fast as he could. He had no idea how Potter and Weasley had gotten by Peeves, but more importantly, why did they go into the forbidden corridor? Were they trying to find the Philosopher’s Stone? Why would _they_ want it?

He’d just reached the landing on the second floor when his other very perceptive thought hit him. Potter and Weasley wouldn’t want the Philosopher’s Stone, but the Dark Lord would.

All of a sudden it all made sense. When the Dark Lord had disappeared ten years ago, no body had been found. Most people believed that he hadn’t been destroyed, just weakened. Now his followers were sensing his presence – albeit a weak presence – here at Hogwarts.

The Philosopher’s Stone could give life – eternal life. The Dark Lord, or whatever was left of him, was trying to get the Stone to restore his strength, his life. He must have been attacking the unicorns for the same reason. Unicorn blood must have somehow given him enough strength to launch this more ambitious plan.

Draco began running, but not to the Slytherin common room. Instead he was heading for Professor Snape’s office. Draco knew that the Potions Master was the one person he could tell all this to and he felt, very strongly, that he really must tell someone.

He sprinted down the last stretch and pounded on the door, hoping but not really expecting that the office would be occupied at this late hour. A thrill of relief washed over him when he heard the words, “You may enter.”

Professor Snape seemed to be busy doing the same thing a lot of students had been doing that day, packing up for the summer.

Draco’s words poured out in a torrent. “Sir, I think the Dark Lord is trying to get the Philosopher’s Stone.”

Professor Snape, calmly putting a pair of shoes into a box, replied casually, “Yes, I’d come to the same conclusion myself.” He looked around the room a bit and picked up a pile of papers. Almost as if he’d just noticed that Draco was still there he added, “Is there anything else?”

Draco stammered, “Erm… I…” This hadn’t been the response he’d expected. Then again, what had he been expecting? Professor Snape was, like Lucius Malfoy, a follower of the Dark Lord. He certainly wouldn’t be upset if the Dark Lord rose to power again. If anything, wouldn’t he being trying to help the Dark Lord get the Stone? Come to think of it, he had seen Professor Snape lurking around the third-floor corridor before.

Draco suddenly became aware that the Potions Master wasn’t quite as disinterested as he seemed. His feet were shuffling around and his hands were picking things up, but his dark eyes were watching Draco carefully.

Draco realized then why he’d come to Professor Snape. He’d expected him to do something. To rush off and stop the Dark Lord, or to at least reassure him that the Philosopher’s Stone was unreachable. He had no idea why Professor Snape would do that; as a matter of fact, he had no idea why he even wanted him to do that.

He hadn’t really had a chance to think about it in his rush downstairs, but for some reason that is what his instinct told him. Now his instinct was telling him something else. What if he was in trouble for showing concern about the possible return of the Dark Lord? After all, Professor Snape would have been able to read Draco’s tone and guessed why he’d come here. Why was he even doing this? Didn’t he want to make his father proud?

Professor Snape was still watching him.

“I just thought you should know. My idea I mean. It was just a guess, but I just thought you should know.”

“You were right in coming to me.”

“And is the Stone there, in the third-floor corridor?”

“In a sense. Under it, to be more precise. Why do you ask?” The Professor asked, still watching him carefully.

“Well… it’s just that I heard some people going in there… Potter and Weasley… and I think someone else was with them.” Draco suddenly realized who that the ‘someone’ was bound to be: Hermione.

For the first time this evening, Professor Snape’s face showed surprise and maybe even a little concern. “When?”

“Just now. Just a few minutes ago.”

“How did they get in? Except for Professor Dumbledore and myself there would be very few people who could ever get past the new spell on that door.”

“It was already open.”

“Was it?” Professor Snape fell back into his chair, deep in thought.

“Perhaps Professor Dumbledore was in there?” Draco suggested.

“No, he’s been called away to London.”

“Do you think…?”

Professor Snape finished Draco’s question, “That it was the Dark Lord who opened the door? It may have been. In fact, given the facts, it seems quite likely.” It was impossible to tell whether Professor Snape looked happy or concerned.

“And you say Potter and his friends went in as well? Fools. Three first-year students couldn’t possibly be enough to stop the Dark Lord, and they’ll probably perish in the attempt.”

Professor Snape stood up and swung a long heavy cloak over his back.

“Are you going to do something? Are you going to help them?”

“Help them? And interfere with the Dark Lord’s plans? Certainly not. But I will see if I can track down Headmaster Dumbledore. He should at least know that some of his students are out of their rooms after hours. I suggest you be back in yours before he comes back.”

Draco stumbled back to his dormitory in a haze. He reached the secret entrance to the Slytherin common room and could hear that some people were still awake and celebrating the end of the term. He leaned against the stone wall opposite. Its dampness felt cool and soothing, especially because his head felt like it was on fire.

The Dark Lord was about to rise again, and not just in some future far-off time, but in the next few minutes. And he wouldn’t be happy about the three young Gryffindors trying to stop him. Hermione would probably be his first victim, but it was unlikely that Potter and Weasley’s pure-blood status would protect them for long, particularly given the Dark Lord’s history with Harry.

Draco remembered when he’d first talked to Hermione, when she’d attacked him with an apple. He found himself smiling at the memory. The smile disappeared and was replaced with a grimace as he remembered calling her ‘Mudblood filth’ after the race.

What were they thinking, rushing off to face the Dark Lord by themselves? They’d be slaughtered. And why was Professor Snape so open about things, saying that he agreed with Draco’s suspicions and telling Draco that the Philosopher’s Stone was under the third-floor corridor? Hadn’t Professor Snape said that it was the highest level of loyalty to simply keep the Dark Lord’s secrets? Why open up to Draco just before the Dark Lord’s master plan was about to succeed?

Three?

How could he say so casually that _three_ first-years couldn’t stop the Dark Lord? Was Professor Snape hinting that Draco should make it _four_?

“Just forget about it,” he said out loud. His parents knew what they were doing. They knew a lot more about the world than he did. He should trust their teaching. He respected them. He loved them.

“No. I don’t love you.” His father’s words at King’s Cross Station after Christmas suddenly echoed in Draco’s head.

“He didn’t really mean that,” Draco argued half-heartedly with himself. “Besides, he had said he respected me, which is much better.”

“And he’ll keep ‘respecting’ you as long as you act exactly like him,” came an unwelcome thought. More thoughts followed. Thoughts of his uncle’s house, of laughing red faces at the Christmas Rally, of Ember and Shade, of the cowled figure in the Forbidden Forest. He began to grow angry and he felt again the familiar rise of hatred inside him.

Then he suddenly understood something. He suddenly understood that he _hated_ feeling hate. He hated the anger inside him and he wanted it gone. That realization led to another, equally stunning one. Draco suddenly realized why Potter, Weasley and Hermione would be willing to throw their lives away just on the off chance that they could actually stop the Dark Lord. It was the only way to stop that hate.

“Flying Fish.” Draco shouted the password and hurled himself through the entrance to the Slytherin common room before the door finished opening. He went straight to the dorm, smiling and nodding, even giving small waves in greeting to the few remaining students still up. He moved swiftly but didn’t run; something told him that he should not draw attention to himself.

The Cave was quiet. Draco assumed his friends were asleep and he hoped they’d stay that way.

He glanced around, wondering what to bring. He snatched up his wand. Then he remembered that Professor Snape had said the Philosopher’s Stone was _under_ the third-floor corridor. He dug around for his magical hole, which was somewhere in the pile of stuff he was getting ready to pack. Tossing some unwashed socks aside, he found it and slid it into a pocket of his robe.

He looked around for anything else that might help. Coming across the remainder of Sidney Parrish’s Chameleon potion, Draco downed it in one gulp. In seconds his robes matched the mottled grey wall behind him. Draco thought that if he ever got the chance, he really should tell Professor Snape that Sidney had handed her potion in. Turning to leave, he noticed the unreturned Tinderblast still sitting in the corner of his room. “Couldn’t hurt,” he thought as he snatched it up too.

No one – at least no one alive – noticed the common room door slide open as Draco walked noiselessly out.

 

*

 

Draco trotted briskly upwards. He had just stepped on to the marble staircase in the Entrance Hall when Peeves the Poltergeist sailed past “Have to stay away from the third-floor corridor tonight.”

Draco froze. He’d been caught. But then he realized that Peeves hadn’t noticed him at all, that the poltergeist was just talking to himself. It was a relief when Peeves swept around the corner towards the Great Hall, but still, the message seemed liked a bad omen. Pushing it to the back of his mind he took the stairs two at a time.

As he was climbing, Draco realized a flaw in his plan. How was he going to get through the door? When he arrived he was pleased to discover that it was, again, open. Had Potter turned around after all and left the door ajar fleeing from the Dark Lord? Or perhaps Professor Snape had opened it up, anticipating this very possibility. In either case, the way forward was clear.

Creeping up to the doorway he heard the rumbling sound that he’d heard earlier in the evening, mixed with the sound of scraping metal. Peering through the gap he saw that the hallway beyond was lit with a low glow that seemed to filter out of the walls themselves. Inside was a huge three-headed dog. Two of its heads were focused firmly on the ground where its claws were scraping madly as if it was trying to dig a hole in the corridor itself. The third head jerked up, looking in Draco’s direction, though the Chameleon potion stopped it from identifying exactly where he was. It sniffed the air while giving off a menacing growl. Drool dripped from its mouth on to the floor below.

A small voice inside his head told him that he now had a great excuse to just return to his dormitory, having given it his best try. No one could expect him to sacrifice himself to this beast. Yet, against his better judgment, Draco climbed onto the Tinderblast and kicked off. Hopefully he could fly right over before the monster even realized what was going on.

The old broom was still as jerky and temperamental as ever. And with the slavering dog blocking his path – all three heads now firmly focused on trying to find the intruder – Draco was having a lot of trouble concentrating. He rose too quickly and bounced off the ceiling of the corridor with a painful thud.

Though it couldn’t see Draco, the dog could smell, and now it could hear the boy as well. It rose, thrusting its heads skyward, snapping at whatever was in its reach. Draco jammed the broom down and found himself, a moment later, flying under the dog instead of over. As his head brushed against its soft belly, he hoped that the dog wouldn’t suddenly sit down.

The middle head lurched down, its teeth managing to rip a few stray straws from the broom. The other heads seemed to have different ideas about which way to go as the dog squirmed wildly trying to turn around in the comparatively narrow space. As it lurched, one of the front paws accidentally stepped on the middle head, causing it to whine miserably. In the fray of spinning legs Draco kept flying lower, now scraping just a few inches across the floor. He was just free of the dog when he smashed into, of all things, a discarded harp, lying sideways in the hallway.

Draco, cursing whatever idiotic wandering minstrel had decided that this was a good place to store unwanted musical instruments, was thrown off the Tinderblast, though he managed to keep hold of it with one hand. The three headed beast had finished its awkward turn, but instead of leaping on Draco, it seemed to be confused by the harp which had slid sideways after impact and had crashed against the wall, vibrating noisily all the time. While two heads cocked from side to side, listening, the third sniffed at it.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Draco got to his feet. Ignoring a bleeding knee, he ran down the hall for a few steps while straddling his broom. After getting a little momentum he kicked off again.

Hearing Draco scampering, the dog forgot about the harp and scrambled after its prey once again, it’s claws scratching up the floor as it tried to get some traction. For a few seconds it looked like the dog might overtake him, but the broom steadily gained speed until he managed to pull out a seemingly safe lead. However, Draco’s feeling of good fortune at his narrow escape was quickly forgotten when he realized that the hallway was rapidly coming to an end in the form of a solid stone wall. He pulled to a stop. The dog was still running at full speed at him. It was trailing a long chain, but it looked long enough to reach the end of the hall. Seized with a sudden inspiration, and hoping that this monster liked playing fetch as much as its smaller canine brothers, Draco hurled his broom at the charging beast.

As soon as the Tinderblast left the young wizard’s hand, the Chameleon charm on the broom broke. Seeming to appear out of thin air, it spiralled once and then clattered down, skittering along the floor. The dog screeched to a clumsy stop, all three heads suddenly desperately snapping at the wooden stick. With a pang of regret at the loss of what had been a thoroughly lousy but surprisingly useful broom, Draco watched as two heads engaged in a game of tug of war, and snapped the Tinderblast in half. While the dog was entertained by shredding the remaining bits of the broom to pieces, Draco pulled out his magical hole and dropped through the floor.

He emerged into a large chamber. This shared a similarity to his dorm room in that it appeared to be a natural cave, one that had perhaps been altered by magic to make it a little roomier. It was, however, much larger than their ‘Cave’ – more a cavern really – and the floor was a disappointingly long distance below. A fortuitously located grey-blue stalactite extended from the ceiling, just inches away from where Draco had emerged as the hole yanked him through the floor, and he immediately grabbed at it. He managed to wrap his arms and legs around the rough life-saver, which briefly halted his fall. The stalactite was wet and slick, and he began a slow unsettling slide down the narrowing stone.

Already missing his lost Tinderblast, Draco gambled. Releasing the stalactite with one arm, he snatched out his wand and croaked, “Climbis Hawa.” Instantly his other arm stuck to the stone like a gecko’s hand, bringing his slide to a welcome stop. Putting the wand into his mouth and holding it with his teeth, he scrambled back up the stalactite and then attached himself dizzily to the ceiling. It was only then that he became aware of the fact that there were two other people in the room.

Draco hung his head awkwardly down and surveyed what was below him. Despite its large size, the room contained very little. Besides a roaring blue fire against one wall, seemingly burning without fuel, there was only one other object in the room: a tall oval mirror. Standing in front of the mirror was Professor Quirrell, easily recognizable from above because of his turbaned head. A few feet away stood a young man bound in ropes who, even though his face was difficult to make out, Draco quickly recognized as Harry Potter. Draco was confused. Where was the Dark Lord? And what happened to Hermione and Weasley?

Professor Quirrell had been talking when Draco fell through the hole, but he’d stopped, undoubtedly having heard something of the younger wizard’s attempts not to die. He now held his arm out, palm down, shushing Potter as he scanned the room, his eyes repeatedly turning suspiciously to the silent fire.

Reassured that he and Potter were still alone, Professor Quirrell began speaking again. “I don’t understand… is the Stone inside the Mirror? Should I break it?”

“Professor Sinistra was right,” thought Draco. “No one ever looks up.”

He wanted to sit still and listen but he was all too acutely aware of the fact that he’d never really mastered the Gecko Grip Spell and that it was a long fall to the floor below. He began to crawl along the ceiling, disconcertingly upside-down at first until he reached the rough curving wall of the gloomy cavern. He turned his body so that he was feet first and worked his way down, imagining that there was a ladder in front of him and silently willing the spell to keep working. He was beginning to hope that he might just make it when the charm partly gave way. He didn’t simply fall off the wall, but instead began a steady slide, his hands and feet still sticking to the side of the cave.

Quirrell’s rising voice initially drowned out any sound caused by the failing spell, but the unmistakable thump of Draco hitting the floor, bruised but otherwise uninjured, interrupted Professor Quirrell a second time. The Chameleon potion was still working well, but Draco remembered that Quirrell had been able to spot him in the hallway the first time he’d used the potion.

Draco suddenly felt cold, not just as if the air around him had dropped in temperature, but as if heat was being sucked out of him. For a moment he thought that Quirrell must have struck him with a spell, but then he realized that he was surrounded by a ghost. The Bloody Baron had just drifted through the wall and was now hovering so that Draco’s body was completely encased in his own.

It was excruciatingly painful. Feeling the ghost’s touch in the Great Hall on the first night at Hogwarts had been unpleasant, but being entombed like this was like being tortured with some bizarre frozen electricity. He opened his mouth to scream but the Baron hissed in a low voice, “Do nothing, Boy. That thing can see your heat.”

Quirrell looked away from Potter, who was struggling uselessly against his bindings, and fixed a steely gaze on the Bloody Baron.

The Baron swung his sword, which instead of passing through the wall hit it with a dull thud. He then lifted the blade and inspected its sharpness.

“Be gone,” Quirrell snapped.

The ghost slowly lifted his eyes, feigning surprise, as if he’d had no idea the room was occupied.

“This concerns the living, not the dead,” Quirrell barked.

The Bloody Baron nodded and grew translucent. Due to the biting cold, Draco knew the ghost hadn’t moved. But Quirrell seemed satisfied as the turbaned wizard turned his attention back to Potter.

Moments later warmth flooded back into Draco’s body as he slunk quickly but quietly into a small recess in the cave’s wall. Squeezing tightly in, he willed his heart to slow down. After a few calming moments he peeked out at Potter and Quirrell.

A strange high pitched voice seemed to be emanating from Professor Quirrell’s head. “Use the boy… Use the boy.”

Quirrell turned. “Yes. Potter, come here.”

He clapped his hands once and the ropes binding Potter fell off.

“Come here,” Quirrell repeated. “Look in the mirror and tell me what you see.”

Potter walked over to Quirrell and their voices sank as both looked in the mirror. Draco could only make out a word here or there. After a minute Potter started edging away from Quirrell, shooting a surreptitious glance towards the flames burning against the wall. Suddenly, the high pitched voice, harsh but clear, split the air again.

“He lies… He lies.”

“Potter, come back here,” Quirrell shouted. “Tell me the truth! What did you just see?”

The high voice hissed again.

“Let me speak to him… face to face.”

“Master, you are not strong enough!”

“I have strength enough… for this…”

Professor Quirrell, his hands shaking, reached up and slowly, deliberately, unwrapped his turban. When he was done he turned, now facing Potter with the back of his head. Only it wasn’t the back of his head at all; something was there. Where there should have only been skin and hair, there was a face. An unbelievably pale white face with piercing red eyes and slits for nostrils.

“Harry Potter,” it whispered.

Draco pulled back into the small fold in the rock, fearful that the face would sense him. He immediately knew what it was. It was the Dark Lord. He knew it in his heart. Draco couldn’t understand what foul magic had merged him with Professor Quirrell, or even if there was a Professor Quirrell at all, but there was no doubt that the Dark Lord was here.

There was more talking, but Draco could only hear the blood pounding in his ears. The thoughts that had been whispering in his mind for months suddenly surged forward – thoughts of hatred and power and arrogance.

“Abandon Potter. He hates you. Or better yet, step forward and help the Dark Lord. He would honour you. You could stand by his side as he raises the pure-blood wizards to their rightful place in the world. Your father would be so proud. He would praise you. He might even kneel before you.”

“No.”

Draco felt like he’d shouted the word, but he’d only thought it.

“No. I won’t.”

Draco was shaking. He felt like laughing. He felt like crying.

“I… I can’t.”

He knew then he had made a decision that he couldn’t turn back from. He had decided to abandon the future his parents envisioned. He wouldn’t be what they wanted him to be.

His chest felt warm, so warm. He looked down. It was the unicorn horn, still strung around his neck. It was glowing and Draco knew somehow that the decision he’d just made had stirred it to life. Half out of curiosity, half out of fear that the glow would give his position away, Draco closed his left hand around it.

The warmth moved inside him. It whispered to him. “Protoregis Amma?”

He felt calm now, strangely calm.

He peered out from his hiding spot, surveying the Dark Lord-Quirrell monstrosity towering menacingly over Potter. Pure rage, pure hatred emanated from it.

Draco lifted his wand. “Protoregis Amma,” he whispered.

He felt the spell but he didn’t see it. He felt the power, the energy, flow from his wand to Potter.

Quirrell reached down and grabbed Harry’s wrist. There were shouts. Cries of pain. A smell of burning flesh. Quirrell was looking at his hands, confused. He tried again. Again his cries mingled with Potter’s.

Draco slumped back. His eyes closed as the confused shouting seemed to drift farther and farther away. He didn’t understand what had just happened, but he knew that the Dark Lord would not be able to get the Philosopher’s Stone tonight.


	23. The Shadow Walker

What happened afterwards was a bit of a blur. Draco remembered being curled up on the floor shivering and overhearing Headmaster Dumbledore telling Professor Snape to take care of him, while the Headmaster looked after Potter. A few people had come and gone. Professor Quirrell had been taken away, but Draco didn’t know if he was alive or dead. Then later Draco remembered stumbling along, almost falling asleep while he walked.

The next thing he was fully aware of was sitting in Professor’s Snape’s office holding a cup of sweet smelling (but slightly odd tasting) cocoa.

“Drink it up. It will help.”

With each sip he grew more alert, though he also grew very aware of how much his body ached. Alert or not, he wanted nothing more than to go to bed.

“So, you chose to thwart the Dark Lord.” It wasn’t a question and, as was often the case, Professor Snape’s careful tone gave away none of his thoughts or feelings.

“Yes,” Draco confessed, too tired to care about the consequences of his honesty. He looked up and met Professor’s Snape’s gaze, using what little strength he had to show his defiance. He had played his part in stopping the Dark Lord, and he wasn’t ashamed of what he’d done.

“If you ever answer that question again, you should answer very differently, Draconius. We will also need to teach you to train your mind so that those around can not detect when you are lying. Though I will admit that you have done an excellent job of concealing your true beliefs this year. But I suspect that is mostly because you didn’t know the truth of what you believed yourself.”

“Huh?” Draco was too woolly-headed to either be polite or to understand what Professor Snape had just said.

“Next time, unless you are talking to me, you will lie. This includes when you are talking to your school chums, your parents, or the Dark Lord himself.”

“Lie?”

“Unless you have a better idea?” Professor Snape raised one eyebrow scornfully.

“Why do I have to lie?”

“Do you have any idea what you have just done? You have deliberately prevented the Dark Lord from gaining the very object he most desired. The object that would have returned his strength and ushered in a whole new era for the wizarding world. His followers would have quickly become very powerful, while those in opposition would have been cast down and crushed. Can you imagine the rage that would be directed at you by every one of the Dark Lord’s followers – which includes your family, their friends and business associates, virtually everyone in Slytherin house along with their families, not to mention the Dark Lord himself – were it known that you had been responsible for stopping this from happening? If the news of your involvement got out, you would be torn limb from limb. Why _did_ you do it, by the way?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to, at first. But then I figured out your hint…”

“My hint?”

“You said that _three_ first-years wouldn’t be enough to stop the Dark Lord. It took me a while, but I finally realized that you were hinting that I needed to join them and make it four.”

“Are you insane? I wasn’t hinting any such thing. You practically committed suicide. The only thing I told you was that you should go to your dormitory. That way, when I got back with Professor Dumbledore we would know where to find you and that unicorn’s horn.”

“Oh. Then why do you open the door to the third-floor corridor?”

“I didn’t do that either. A magical defense, one which I had personally constructed, actually, allowed only _one_ of those three to continue in pursuit of the Dark Lord. Since Weasley had been injured, Granger helped bring him back to the hospital wing. I imagine they left the door open.”

Draco flushed with embarrassment at his mistake. After a moment, he went back to Professor Snape’s original point. “Lying about what I did won’t do any good. Lots of people must know what happened. Dumbledore, Professor Quirrell, Potter, even… Him.”

“Well, Potter seems quite oblivious to the fact that you were even there, and Quirrell is dead. The Headmaster does know, but he will keep the secret. As for the Dark Lord, the Bloody Baron seems convinced that he never detected your presence. Let us hope he is correct.”

“But _you_ know. And you’re all those things you said. You’re a friend of my father, you’re Head of Slytherin house, and everybody knows you’re a supporter of the Dark Lord.”

“Just because everyone _knows_ something is true doesn’t actually make it true.”

Professor Snape reached down and plucked a cream coloured cone-shaped object off the top of his desk. It was smooth to the touch and had a swirled pattern, like a barbershop pole. He passed it carefully over.

Draco looked at it. He’d seen this before, when he’d broken into Professor Snape’s office. Now he understood what it was. It was the tip of a unicorn’s horn, like the one hanging around Draco’s neck.

“This is not the first time the unicorns have taken a role in protecting Potter. They are incapable of casting spells themselves, but as you now know, they can pass on great power, though it is extremely rare that they do so. To meddle in human affairs twice in ten years is quite unprecedented.”

“So it was you? You – with help from a unicorn – _you_ protected Potter when he was a baby? When the Dark Lord battled his family?”

“Murdered his family, you mean. No, I keep this tip as a souvenir and a reminder, but it was never mine. I wasn’t even there that night, although I did play my part. There are others that did more – much more.”

“Does Potter know?”

“No, he has no clue. Even as we speak, Professor Dumbledore is reassuring him that it was simply his mother’s love that protected him, yet again.”

“His mother’s love?”

“I know. It sounds nice, but obviously leaves a lot unexplained. Still, it is not a complete lie. It was the love of his mother, and love _for_ his mother, that provided the motivation for some of us to act. So in essence Dumbledore’s explanation is true, though it does omit some key details. Which brings us back to my earlier point. Omitting details, using the truth creatively, and being undetectable when you are forced to lie are some skills that you are going to need to master, Draco.”

“Lie to who?”

“I already told you: to everyone. You have made a choice. You have chosen to oppose the Dark Lord. You can’t go back now. And if what you have done comes out, then, as I said, you will be ripped limb from limb, only probably it’ll be worse than that.”

“Worse?”

“Yes. Saying ‘ripped limb from limb’ sounds like it would be quick and painless. But considering the Dark Lord’s personality, it would more likely be slow and painful.”

“Oh.”

“And it wouldn’t just be you. Your family would suffer too. Your parents, your sisters. Perhaps your friends as well.”

“Why? They had nothing to do with it!”

“That wouldn’t matter to the Dark Lord. So you see, you will need to lie. Partly to protect them, but also because the very ones you want to protect would betray you. If you confessed to one of your friends that you’d stopped the Dark Lord, could you trust them to keep this information secret? To not betray your trust to their families? What about your father? He would be horrified by what you’ve done. Would he be willing to overlook it just because you are his son?”

Would his father overlook it? Draco considered this. Not out of love, he understood that now. But out of loyalty? He found himself thinking of Uncle Aklion. “So what am I going to do?”

“You will have to be smart. Obviously you can’t just step into the light and announce to the world that you are ready to fight the Dark Lord. You wouldn’t last five minutes if you did. You will have to leave that sort of thing to fools like Potter. Let them draw attention to themselves and then you can walk unnoticed in the shadows. Unfortunately you can’t just withdraw either. Oh, maybe in a few years, when you are all grown up, you could move away, feign a lack of interest in the world’s power struggles. But now, as the son of Lucius Malfoy who is perhaps the most prominent of all the Dark Lord’s supporters, you could not. If you begin to act the way that you feel, refusing to support the Dark Lord, refusing to agree with your father’s opinions, it would be too suspicious and your actions tonight could well be discovered.

“So you really have no choice. You need to walk the same dangerous path that I’ve been following for the last ten years. Outwardly, you must appear the dutiful follower. You must agree with everything your father says. Do everything the Dark Lord’s supporters want you to do. At times you may even need to go above and beyond, to demonstrate that you are one of the strongest supporters of the pure-blood cause. You will hide your true feelings, hide your true intentions, and only do what you feel is right when no one will know.”

“Wow. You make it sound so easy.”

“I’ll ignore the sarcasm in your voice and pretend, for a moment, that you really believe that. Of course it will not be easy. You will need to lie. You will need to do things you find abhorrent in order to convince those around you that you are with them, and when you do fight the Dark Lord, you will usually do it alone, surrounded by enemies.”

“Is that all?”

“No, in fact. There is one other rather difficult point. Namely this: no one will ever know. That may be the hardest thing of all for a young man to accept. You will never be considered a hero. You will never get the praise you will be sure you deserve. Every success you have will seem to be a failure to those around you. Tonight you stopped the Dark Lord from rising to power. Tomorrow the world will believe that Harry Potter did it. If they think of you at all, they will think, ‘Thank Goodness, You-Know-Who’s supporters failed again.’ That will be your reward.”

Opposing the Dark Lord while acting openly like one of his faithful followers. Walking in the shadows along a dangerous path. Never being thanked or rewarded. Professor Snape didn’t make it sound very appealing, but with every word he spoke Draco felt the confidence and excitement inside him building. This, finally, was his direction. This was what he had been searching for. Draco knew it was exactly what he wanted.

 

*

 

Draco sat in a carriage on the Hogwarts Express, casually stretched out, leaning on his elbow with one leg on the floor and the other on the seat. He wore a slight grin as he thought about the end-of-year feast. The Great Hall had been decorated in Slytherin green and silver. Professor Snape sat triumphant, looking like a cat that had just swallowed a mouse. The House Cup, won by Slytherin House for the seventh year in a row, sat next to his dinner plate. Draco had cheered with the rest of the Slytherins, banging his goblet on the table.

Then Dumbledore had stood up to announce that he had “a few last minute points to dish out” before the feast could begin. Naturally there had already been rumours flying around about how the young Gryffindors had either defeated Lord Voldemort or killed Professor Quirrell, depending on who was doing the telling, though most students didn’t really believe either version. But with Professor Dumbledore handing out fifty points to Hermione, fifty more to Weasley, and sixty points to Potter – the largest amount given out at once to anyone in years – and peppering his speech with hints and riddles, he made it very clear to everyone exactly what had happened under the third floor corridor – or at least what he wanted the world to think had happened. By the end of Dumbledore’s speech, Gryffindor was ten points ahead of Slytherin.

Professor Snape had risen to his feet, his hunched shoulders, forced smile, and sour face showing his disdain for what had just happened, and reluctantly handed the House Cup over to Professor Minerva McGonagall, whose face was beaming with surprise and pleasure.

Draco knew that Professor Dumbledore wasn’t about to award him points for his part in stopping the Dark Lord, just as he knew that Professor Snape wasn’t surprised and angry about having to hand over the House Cup. Professor Snape had told him earlier exactly what to expect at the feast, and what Draco needed to do.

Of course there was a huge reaction to the sudden switch in House Cup points. The Gryffindors had erupted in cheers and celebration. The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws had applauded politely, while the Slytherins hissed with derision.

Draco had taken the lead, shouting up and down the table about how unfair it was, telling everyone how they’d been cheated, and pointing out that it wouldn’t have mattered one bit how many points they’d gotten through the year, as Dumbledore would have just handed more than that to Gryffindor and the ending would be the same.

On the other side of the Hall, the House Cup had been passed down the Gryffindor table, each student touching it or even kissing it. Then the Weasley twins, Ron’s older brothers, were filling it with pumpkin juice to toast to their victory, and all those who hadn’t had a chance to touch it yet were crowding around. In the middle of the scrum was Harry Potter, hands slapping him on the back in congratulations. Almost everyone in the Great Hall was looking Potter’s way. Draco noticed, however, that Dumbledore was not. Instead, he was looking at Draco over his half-moon spectacles. The Headmaster appeared pleased and gave the young Slytherin an almost imperceptible nod. Draco fought hard to suppress a smile.

 

*

 

Blaise and Greg interrupted Draco’s thoughts and he brought his attention slowly back to the rattling carriage of the Hogwarts Express. The boys were silently waving at him to get his attention. They were crouched down on the carriage floor and had evidently been rummaging through Crabbe’s suitcase. Crabbe hadn’t noticed; he was stretched out across a bench, sleeping.

Before leaving Hogwarts they had all seen their test marks. Out of Draco, Crabbe and Greg, Draco had made out the best in most of the courses, even Transfiguration which had surprised him considering how fond McGonagall had seemed of him. However, surprisingly Crabbe had beaten both the other boys in Herbology and had drawn even with Draco in Charms. Maybe he had studied hard for the final exams – he certainly seemed tired. Even with the boys sniggering away next to him as they pawed through his belongings, Crabbe breathed rhythmically in slumber.

Greg passed Draco a large book with a purple cover. A picture on the front showed a chocolate cake dripping with red swirls of syrup and topped with raspberries. The title read, “The Crafty Cooking Ladies of London: Dessert Edition.”

Answering the look of confusion on Draco’s face, Blaise said, “It’s the club he belongs to. Remember how he was always getting stuff from the CCLL? That’s what it is. Our Crabbe is a Crafty Cooking Lady.”

The train’s whistle interrupted their conversation, announcing their arrival at King’s Cross Station. Draco tossed the book back to Greg, who stuffed it into Crabbe’s bag.

Moments later there was a flurry of motion. Crabbe sat up and smiled back at all the people grinning around him. Greg was hauling his large rabbit cage, covered in a dark blanket, out the door. People were calling to friends and family. Owls were hooting as their cages were piled atop luggage, doors were slamming, and cries of “See you in September” were echoing up and down the train.

Draco, feeling in no rush to leave, let the others pack up and clear out, until the only other person left in the carriage was Pansy. She slipped her backpack over her shoulders. Draco notice with a grin that her pack was once again sporting her red button, though it was now rather worn and the words had faded so that only “Stop” and “of Pointless” were clearly legible.

Draco, his suitcase now in hand, waited a few more seconds to give her time to head out, but she showed no sign of leaving. In fact, she moved in close to Draco until their noses were only a few inches apart. She stood there silently, as if she were waiting for something, though Draco had no idea what she was waiting for. Finally Pansy leaned in and kissed him.

“Have a good summer, Draco.” Pansy whirled and left the cabin.

Ten seconds later a stunned Draco said, “You too,” to the carriage door.

Surprised – not unpleasantly – with what just happened, Draco stumbled off the Hogwarts Express, one of the last students to do so. Examining the platform carefully, determined not to overlook his mother again if she were here, Draco had the breath knocked out of him when his sisters, first Ember, then Shade, crashed into him.

“There you are…”

“Finally.”

Draco strained, trying to pick both of them up at once, surprised at how much they’d grown in the months since Christmas.

“Let’s go home.”

“We’ve got a great game to teach you.”

“It’s called bomb the elf.”

“All you need is a lot of tomatoes and Dobby.”

“It can get a little messy.”

Draco laughed. It did sound like a good game. Then he noticed his father standing silently not far away. Lucius Malfoy did not look happy.

 

**THE END**


	24. Author's Thoughts and Disorganized Ramblings

     There are four different occasions which got me thinking about writing _Draco Malfoy and the Shadow Walker_. However the first two occasions seem only distantly connected.

     The first inspiration came when I went to Desmet, South Dakota  and attended a play about the town’s most famous family, the Ingalls of _Little House on the Prairie_ fame. As the audience entered the play’s venue (an open field) we got to pick out little nametags for souvenir keepsakes.  I chose the “Nellie Oleson” nametag.  If you are familiar with the books and the TV show then you know that Nellie is the villain of many stories – the smarmy and pushy girl who likes to make Laura’s life in school unpleasant.  When I picked the nametag I was thinking about how poor Nellie probably never gets picked.  And I also got to wondering both about how she must have felt about the _Little House on the Prairie_ books (she may well have still been alive when they were first published, for all I knew), and then I started to wonder how the stories would have been different if Nellie had been the author.  Would she have come across as a sweet girl incessantly being picked on by that jerk Laura?

     The second inspiration came from my disappointment after watching the movie _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead_.  It is a story about a couple of the minor characters in Shakespeare’s _Hamlet_ and it takes place at the same time – interweaving its story with the main action of _Hamlet_.  Only it doesn’t really.  That’s the way it was presented, and I thought that was a really clever and interesting idea.  But the story itself is almost entirely self-contained and only has the occasional bit of _Hamlet_ thrown in just to show that _Hamlet_ is indeed going on at the same time.  With a tiny bit of rewriting it could have been the exact same story set in the background of _Wizard of Oz_.  It’s not a bad story, but its claim to be something interwoven and fleshing out _Hamlet_ was really just a gimmick.

      The third seed of my idea to write Draco Malfoy and the Shadow Walker grew from how I felt after finishing reading the first Harry Potter book, _The Philosopher’s Stone_.  I’d really enjoyed reading it.  It had been one of those rare books where, when I finished a chapter, I just really wanted to start the next one.  But the final conclusion, in which Harry survived everything because his mother loved him, seemed really weak.  And as I read some of the other books in the Harry Potter series I often felt the same way at the ends of those.  The stories were great (and often very complex), but too often they ended on a surprisingly simple note.  I’ve had trouble enjoying Star Trek and Doctor Who for the same reason.  There is a whole lot of action – some terrible peril – and then at the last minute a thing happens (someone reverses the polarity of something, someone realizes that because of the impacts of some random thing – time flux, mother’s love, etc. – that everything is okay after all).  I also kind of took exception to the idea that the love of Harry’s mother was somehow way more powerful than the love of other people’s mothers.  Did that mean that all the other people actually killed by Voldemort (or by anything else, really) just weren’t loved enough by their mothers?  So I kind of longed for a different ending.  I also wanted some other plot holes filled in, like why, when there was a troll wandering the dungeons, the Slytherins were sent to their common room _in the dungeon_. Or why Hagrid chewed out Harry, Hermione, and Neville for rule breaking when they only got into trouble in the first place for sneaking _Hagrid’s_ dragon through the school.

      The fourth – and much more direct – beginning of my idea for _Draco Malfoy and the Shadow Walker_ came after reading the first two Harry Potter books to my five-going-on-six year old daughter, Ember.  She loved them, but she was also quite young and not too eager to listen to stories about anything gory or violent.  In fact she requested that I “edit” those elements out when I read.  When we were done the second book she wanted more Harry Potter but I thought _The Prisoner of Azkaban_ would be both too complicated and too violent for her.  I told her that we’d read it in a year or two.  She suggested that I should write a book in the meantime so we could keep reading Harry Potter.  I probably said something like, “Er, okay…”  without really giving it much thought.  But the odd thing was that I went ahead and started writing the next day.

     At first writing was relatively easy because I just sat down and wrote.  I really didn’t give any thought to what I was doing or where it was all going.  I just tried to write a little something every evening because at bedtime Ember would always ask for what I’d written that day.  If I had only managed to write a paragraph she would chastise me.  A full page was a good day.

    This went on for quite a while and as I wrote I sometimes had ideas for larger plot points and so forth.  So as time went by I started to have an idea of the actual “story.”  The trouble was, by this point I had about half of a book which could only be considered a rambling mess.  I finally stopped and actually planned out where the story might be going and then proceeded on with it – knowing full well that a lot of what I was putting in the second half didn’t agree with the first half.

     When I was “done” (several years later) I began the process of rewriting it – especially the first half.  In fact, the first three chapters pretty much just got thrown in the garbage and I wrote them again from scratch.  So in a sense I actually wrote the first half of the book after the second half.

     However, one thing I didn’t change was the first sentence. Perhaps I was just sentimental about it, but that sentence was where it had begun. When I sat down that first day, wanting to write a couple of hundred words about the Harry Potter world to please my daughter when it was time for a bedtime story, I had no idea what I was about to type. It is fun to imagine where the story would have led if some other character or sentence or situation had popped into my mind instead of Draco waking up on his birthday. Another thing that I never changed was the chapter titled “In the Shade of the Apple Tree.”  Again, that was mostly for sentimental reasons.  I had asked Ember what to call the next chapter and that was what she answered.

     Writing just that first sentence forced me to immediately start thinking about the bigger picture.  I suddenly had to make my first decision about background information.  If it was Draco’s birthday, well, when _is_ Draco’s birthday?  A moment later I’d decided to just use my own birthday of July 22 nd, figuring that would make it easy to remember.  I found it immensely cool when, years later, I discovered that not only had J.K. Rowling chosen Harry’s birthday to be on her own but also that she was born in the same year and month as I was.  I found that to be some kind of great and symbolic coincidence.  Unfortunately, when the Pottermore website was launched, she gave Draco’s birthday as a different date.  I learned this not long before I was actually finished the story and so one of the last things I ended up doing was re-writing some stuff so that Draco’s birthday was no longer in late July.

      As I wrote I did consciously borrow a lot of things stylistically from Rowling.  Obviously I set everything in her universe and embedded in her story.  But I also tried to imitate certain things she did, sometimes with a slight twist.  For example, her names for spells or other magical objects are often a bit descriptive of what the spell or object does and are usually some mix of English and Latin.  I did the same but instead with jumbled up German and/or Hawaiian.   Many of my inventions were in the realm of Dark Arts but I didn’t pick German style phrasing because German is somehow an inherently evil language; it was just because I know a bit of German and don’t know any Latin at all.  I also made Draco exceptional at one thing (Potions) in the same way Harry was very good at Flying.  As well, I wanted to give Draco a magic item that would both be kind of cool and be useful to the plot, similar to Harry’s invisibility cloak.  I came up with the idea of a magic hole and had come up with a lot of plot points linking to that item before it had really sunk in that it sounded a bit awkward or crude when writing about “Draco’s hole.”  It proved challenging to describe events without writing a sentence that sounded awful.  But by then I was stuck with that hole!

     I tried to use the exact same spelling and capitalization that Rowling used, although I ended up tripping myself up by not realizing for a long time that the British and North American versions of the books were not identical and some of the books from my collection were British editions and some were American.  So when I would go to “look something up” it wasn’t always from a consistent source.  I also used Rowling’s style of referring to the main characters by their first names while simply referring to the background characters and antagonists by their surnames.  I did end up keeping Crabbe as “Crabbe,” adding a note pointing out that people just seemed to call him that for some reason.  The truth of the matter was that I didn’t want to rewrite the actual dialogue of the original book.  I did, upon occasion make small changes which I hoped could be explained away with the idea that someone maybe just missed a word, or perhaps Draco remembered the conversation slightly differently than Harry did.  But being consistent would be trickier if I was always using “Vincent” and Rowling was always using “Crabbe.”  As I say, I did change a few things – most often just adding a word at the end of a sentence or slipping in “Greg” in front of “Goyle,” but mostly I wanted to keep the dialogue identical.  In fact, one of my proudest moments came when I was reading this book to my youngest daughter (who is, as you may have already guessed, named Shade).  She was unhappy after I read her the scene in the Robe Shop where Draco and Harry first meet.  She told me that I “couldn’t just change what happened in the first book,” which let me pull out _Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone_ and show her that absolutely nothing had changed.  The dialogue is word for word – the only thing that changes is that we get some insights into what Draco is thinking or how he is interpreting tone of voice.  However I did want to have at least one storyline that was entirely original, which is how the Flying Race subplot came to be.

      As time went by I did change how I presented characters quite a bit.  Initially I presented almost everyone who was “good” in the original book in a very negative light.  Even Dumbledore was a jerk when I first started writing.  But as time went by either it just didn’t seem to work well that way or I came to realize that if my point was that all the simplified characters from the original book were actually more complex, and not always evil or stupid, then I shouldn’t just paint everyone else that way.  So eventually Dumbledore turned into a pretty nice guy again, and some people kept bad attributes.  Lucius Malfoy, along with some of the other Slytherins (Nott, Zabini, Bulstrode) stayed pretty rotten.  Greg Goyle continued to be kind of dumb and bullyish, but ended up with some motivation for his behaviour (he was just really loyal to his friends).  Even Draco is flawed and often makes mistakes or misassumptions (such as when he assumes Potter has been lying about never having flown before).

     Some character changes actually ended up playing out quite nicely as the real series progressed.  I knew I had to make someone fairly bouncy to provide humour and commentary and whatnot – so Vincent Crabbe got the biggest makeover.  Instead of being just a kind of generic thug he became a bright (albeit a bit lazy) and funny guy.  And then as the actual series came to an end (Rowling wrote the last three books after I’d begun mine) I was happy to see Crabbe using the Wildfyre Spell and Hermione commenting on how Crabbe must actually be quite intelligent to master a spell like that.  Professor Snape worked out even better.  Snape as a double-agent good guy who was actually trying to help and protect Harry all along was integral to my plot and the fact that it ended up that way in the real book series was a very happy coincidence.

     Not everything worked out smoothly of course.  Sometimes things (like Draco’s birthday) had to be rewritten.  Other times I added things to explain away apparent incongruities.  In Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows it gets revealed that the Slytherin Common Room is under the lake.  But changing that would have been a lot of work (and I really liked the scene where Draco falls through his Dorm floor and falls into the lake) so I just added a bit about how people claim the Common Room is under the lake so that non-Slytherins can’t find it.  Professor Sinistra’s character required a bit of editing.  When I first began writing I decided to base Professor Sinistra simply on myself, right down to the physical description.  When I later found out that the Professor was a woman named Aurora I had to change a few things.

     One of my favourite things to do was to slip in little plot points that linked the stories together.  I liked the idea of readers noticing small things like Draco hearing about werewolves in the forest or “being chased” by a helicopter and then realizing that it referenced a scene in _The Philosopher’s Stone_.  It gives the impression that the stories were always supposed to both exist.  One of my favourite scenes was in Chapter 11 when Draco saw Astoria’s picture (Astoria is who he eventually marries in the Potter world).  I also liked slipping people I know in my own life into the story.  If there is a character in _Draco Malfoy and the Shadow Walker_ who doesn’t show up in the Potter books it is probably fair to assume that character (or at the very least that character’s name) is based on someone I know.  There are some exceptions though (like Darren Macintyre).  Of course the biggest additions are my three daughters.  Two of them, Ember and Shade, show up as Draco’s sisters.  Dianna, the ‘old’ First-Year, is the third.  I’ve received a lot of nice comments about this story but the few complaints I’ve gotten were usually about how “Draco never had sisters” and even my explanation in the book about why his sisters aren’t mentioned doesn’t always appease those readers.  Well, what can I say except that this story wouldn’t exist at all if it wasn’t for Draco’s “sisters.”

     I actually had some hard copies of this book printed (Ember designed the cover), mostly just to give out as presents to people that I’d slipped into the story.  If you have gotten this far and are still reading, then wow, you are a member of a dedicated (and small) group, and if you are that dedicated you might actually want a hard copy. If you do, write me an email and maybe we can work something out.

 

H

 


End file.
